Mercy
by Neocolai
Summary: Jacob's first meeting with Newt takes an ugly turn as he watches, dumbstruck, while a crowd of witch-haters demonstrate their own sense of justice. (Genfic, AU)
1. Judgment

**Disclaimer:** Neocolai does not own Fantastic Beasts. Or a Newt Scamander coat. Not sure which is more tragic.

 _Specially commissioned to Feathered Filly. Thank you for your donations to Compassion International. :)_

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New York.

The clamorous compilation of automobiles, clomping feet, police whistles, hot dog stands, stray cats, and more grit than could fill all of America. It was all Jacob knew, but that didn't mean it was all that appealing. Sure, New York was great – loads of interesting people, tourists, funny things happening here and there, and no one cared if you dropped dead in the middle of the street, but it was still grey most of the time, and loud, and about as lively and cheerful as the inside of a canning factory.

One day, Jacob hoped, things would be different. There'd be more children smiling. People would stop for a moment to say hello. No one would care as much if the fog delayed traffic. They'd spend less time shouting at each other. More time being happy.

Maybe he'd be part of that difference. Maybe. If the bank would just give him fifteen minutes to explain his vision.

Clutching his briefcase with more confidence than he felt, Jacob pushed into the crowd mingling on the steps outside the bank. Mary Lou Barebone, or the Witch-Preacher as all the neighborhood and most of the city called her by now, was waving pamphlets under people's noses again. Her same exhorting cry, "Witches are among us!" was more ear-ringing than alarming any more. Jacob had heard the speech so often – now as he went to work, again as he was measured for a suit, again as he purchased lunch – that he could almost predict the measure of her voice and the correct enunciation as she called for true seekers. Hearing her protest was almost as dreary as working in the factory. He kinda felt sorry for her kids.

Really, he felt awfully sorry for them. Children shouldn't have to look like ghosts as they handed out papers with a ring of naked girls dancing on the front page.

But today Jacob didn't have time to sympathize with kids who should've had better homes. He had a slim chance that the bank would appreciate pastries as much as his grandmother, and he hadn't come this far without a fair dash of optimism and a heaping tablespoon of hope. Soon enough he'd have the chance to pass both of those attributes out to others who needed them.

Well, he would if he didn't keep tripping over people's stuff that they left _lying in the middle of the sidewalk_ (which was intolerably rude, but he didn't say that to the blank-eyed, blue-coated oaf who scooped up his trunk with as courteous an apology as an old grandma with a teacup – and Jacob had the best grandmother to uphold as an example). If he managed to keep his footing, and if he managed to find and persuade a banker with a generous heart, then he might bring that little burst of sunshine back into New York City. For now, he'd rally his wits and smile at the world, just like Grandma had told him when he was a boy. It still worked….

Sometimes.

He was almost to the glass doors when he heard a shout. The 'my pocket just got picked and some snot-nosed brat's gonna get his ear pulled' kind of shout. It shouldn't have warranted any attention, stuff like that happened all the time, but something made Jacob hesitate.

He wasn't sure later if he would call it fate, providence, or sheer stupidity.

He stopped at the glass doors, one stride away from his future, and turned around.

At first he just saw a crowd of googling, empty-headed, turncoat sheep-brains eager for some new form of war. Then he saw the beggar who had been slouched against the corner. Previously a man unnoticed, the old man had captured the attention of an entire crowd.

"This thing'un's taken all my money!" The beggar held up a squirming black animal, shaking it at the crowd.

"What is it, a coon?" a business man asked. He peered at the creature, his nose crinkling like a snobby pig.

"It's a shrew!" one of Mary Lou's girls suggested.

"I don't care what it is!" the old beggar said, giving it a more forceful shake. "It stole all my money, I tell ya!"

His allegation was disregarded; his outrage unpitied. For as the creature was slung back and forth, a blue light flashed out of the crowd just as a gold watch, three coins, and a stoned ring clinked onto the stone steps.

Twenty pairs of eyes swung from the scattered plunder, to the flying furry critter, to the wide-eyed, mousey man as he tucked the filcher under one arm, stammering excuses in an unmistakably British accent.

"I'm so terribly sorry. It's harmless, really. Bit of a niffling habit. I'll return your valuables in a – "

"That's my wedding ring!" a woman shrieked, scrambling up the bank steps.

"And my watch!" the pig-man announced. "What else has he stolen?"

"No – no, you don't understand," the Brit exclaimed. "They're not malicious. Look, I'll –"

"Is that a wand in your hand?" Mary Lou's permeating voice silenced both the crowd and the defendant. She stepped closer and the onlookers retreated in turn, leaving her standing alone before the shifty-eyed blue-coat. "Are you a wizard?"

Faced with a question that blatant, any sensible guy would've taken his chances and split. Maybe this Brit wasn't all that right in the head, or maybe he didn't know that much about people. Jacob knew what could happen, and so did the girl with the hot dog in the back of the crowd. She ran to grab the wizard's hand (and Jacob wondered how sane he was for believing in all that witchery stuff), and that's when the crowd picked up on her cue.

Maybe the girl was trying to do something nice. Maybe she was helping him.

A long time later, long after it was over, Jacob kept telling himself that. She was too nice to be one of Salem's advocates.

But the people surrounding them didn't care who was wizard or who was innocent. They just wanted a riot, and this pilfering, naïve foreigner had given them that chance.

Twenty of them converged at once.

Jacob saw a flap of grey as the dark-haired girl slipped backwards and hit her head. Lady's hands, gangster hands, hands blackened with newspaper ink, hands belonging to children, too many hands grabbed at the blue coat. A police whistle shrieked on Jacob's right and he startled back, rubbing his ear while thinking _thank goodness_ , it was going to be over before someone got seriously hurt.

And then someone seized the black squirrel. There was a panicked look on the Brit's face, a fierce struggle as the suited man tried to wrestle it from his arm, and then the Brit got his other hand free and blue light flashed from his wand as he hollered, _"Petrificus Totalus!"_

Pig-nose snapped upright and fell. Blue-toned and limb-locked, as though he was already….

"Oh, no." Jacob clapped a hand over his mouth. _No, no, no…._

Tucking the black critter into his coat, the mousey man hunched amidst the crowd. A little girl with brown curls began to sob.

"Daddy?"

"Dan?" a woman with a feathery hat whispered, clasping the front of her dress. "My Dan! He killed my Dan!" She was on her knees before him in an instant, wailing.

"No – he's not – he's not dead," the Brit said, still trying to talk the crowd into passivity while a man lay murdered in front of them. "He's just petrified. It's a spell, it'll wear off eventually."

"He _is_ a wizard!" a man in the back hollered.

"Witches among us and you stand idly?" Mary Lou screamed above him. "Where is your devotion for your families? Where is your courage in the face of this…?"

Jacob didn't hear the rest. The uproar from the crowd muffled her provocation. Finally realizing the sense in fleeing, the wizard flourished his wand, only to have his wrist yanked behind him. Someone docked him in the chin. Another set of hands ripped at his coat, threatening the beady-eyed creature underneath. His brown case slid against the lowest step, as if the sentimental idiot had kicked it out of harm's way, before he fell under the cuff and shove of New York's finest citizens.

"Some – Somebody's gotta stop this," Jacob realized, scanning the staircase for an officer. There were security guards, all right. Each one of them watching passively as a man was beat to death in front of the bank.

"They're gonna kill him!" Jacob insisted, jabbing over his shoulder.

Blank stares roved across him and moved on.

Some sense of American justice. One lady called 'witch' and nobody cared who died anymore. So maybe the guy was a murderer. Didn't that count for an official court of law? Wasn't that what officers were for?

But the one policeman on scene had apparently given up. A few half-hearted tugs at the rioters and he edged away, blasting his whistle for backup. More people began to mill around the bank entrance, looking on curiously as they waited for their name to be called.

"This…. This ain't right," Jacob stammered, waiting for a lawyer – the doorman – anyone to do _something!_ He gestured frantically to the man beside him. "Come on, we gotta … we gotta…." He waved hopelessly as a wailing, scuffed child was dragged out of the melee. "We have to break this up!"

Tipping his hat over his eyes, the man brushed past him and pushed his way into the bank.

Jacob's attention was yanked back as light flared amidst the horde. For an instant a blue-clad arm was flung over the crowd, thrusting towards heaven like a cry for salvation, before dainty fingers twisted into the gravel-scraped hand and clawed a reedy stick out of its grip. Blood marred those pretty white gloves.

The arm vanished and Jacob felt a _thud_ vibrate under his feet. He hoped it was just an automobile parking too close to the curb.

Black wriggled at the edge of the crowd. Beady eyes glimmered, one swollen under matted fur, one flinching with terror. Limping out of reach of a crushing heel, the quivering creature looked back into the swarm of legs, chittering high and long.

A brown suitcase smacked the pavement. Doughnuts enhanced with orange zest rolled into the gutter. Before sense could claim him, before his brain could warn him about the dangers of picking up stray animals, Jacob found himself shuffling away from the verges of the mob, a shivering, wounded _thing_ huddled under his suit coat.

 _What am I doing? This…. This is just a nightmare. A really bad dream. Witches ain't real. Funny creatures that steal coins ain't real, either. It's all a dream._

He looked down, nauseous with the inevitability that he really _was_ awake… and halted in flop-tongued surprise as the man with the pig nose – the 'dead man' himself – slowly hauled himself up. The blue tinge faded from his skin as his limbs creakily unwound. His wife spotted him, shrieked, and became yet another limp body as she fell against the rallying policeman.

"Hey, he's…. He's not dead!" Jacob squeaked. He waved to the others, begging them to see. "He's not dead! They're … They're killing him for nothing!"

 _They're killing him for nothing…._

Gripping his head, Jacob looked back into the mass. Somehow this was worse than Europe. They didn't just hand these people a gun and tell them to shoot. These were fine, neighborly folk who probably taught their kids every golden rule. He'd likely said hello to them once or twice. They were good people.

"What just …. What are you doing?" Incented, Jacob hauled at the nearest man's coat. "Are you crazy? This ain't a heathen gauntlet! You're trying to – "

Brown shoes teemed in his vision as his head cracked pavement. Lifting a hand to his bloody nose, Jacob swore. These weren't people. They weren't honorary citizens, upholding truth and justice and guiding other nations to do the same. They were animals, snarls and fangs and bloodied fists, clawing anyone who tried to filch their prey.

There were other bodies moaning under their feet. Noble citizens caught up in the throes, beaten down by their own kin.

Thriving in the chaos, Mary Lou wrangled her way back to the sidewalk, brandishing the wand that the Brit had wielded. She shouted to the crowd, unheard, her voice one more gust in the storm. Raising the wand above her head, she snapped it in two. Mutinous applause followed.

The clock struck ten. Only seven minutes had passed since Jacob first approached the bank.

Seven minutes to club a man to death.

Finally, _finally_ , earsplitting whistles broke up the ring as reinforcing officers arrived. The outsiders drifted first, stepping over unfortunates who were trampled in the fray. A few looked around as though wondering where they were; how they came to such a point. Brute force contravened the last huddle of cursing aggressors.

"What are you doing?" Mary Lou demanded, holding out the broken shards of wood. "A witch has been found among us and you would deny us justice?"

One of the officers cast her a look. "You started this?"

Mary Lou tilted her chin. One cheek was bruised. Her chin bled from a nail scratch. "I warned you, Officer Watkins, as I warned you all! Witches have permeated our city! They have endangered the lives of our children, and you denied the truth until death claimed one of your own!"

"There's no one dead here, Miss." The officer shook his head. "Not until you strung this up." He nodded to the reinforcements. "Take 'em in. All of 'em. Get a nurse team up here."

"Have you no sense?" Mary Lou exclaimed, her eyes widening policemen moved in around her. "This man is a sorcerer! A devil cloaked in shadow, the very monster rending our homes! Heed my words, and hear my – "

"Yeah, yeah. Jensen, book her, too," Officer Watkins ordered.

Another day, maybe one with a little more sunlight and less blood, it might have cheered Jacob to see a speechless Mary Lou Barebone.

But he only saw a huddle of blue coat smeared in blood, and angled limbs that turned his stomach.

He fell back against the curb, and his hand closed around the handle of a brown suitcase.

"We need an ambulance down here," another officer called, shaking the brunette who had first grabbed the Brit's hand. She hung limp, blood drying on her right temple. Mercifully she had escaped being trampled to death.

"Aw, man, this was the one they were after?" Officer Watkins grimaced, checking the Brit for a pulse. "Hey Carlson, he's still alive. Get a check on this guy – is he wanted?"

"He's a sorcerer!" Mary Lou screamed.

"Brother!" The word jumped out of Jacob's mouth as his feet lunged from the pavement. "He's my brother. My kid brother. See, he's got my grandma's coloring. You remember her, right? She used to make doughnuts in the square market."

Words tumbled out of his mouth, uncoordinated, haphazard, grasping for a shred of truth that would make this officer believe him. One thing Jacob knew: once the cops learned the whole story, they'd never let the guy out of prison. He'd be stuck there until parliament changed and the president wore fuzzy slippers in public.

It just didn't seem fair.

"I'm telling you, he's my little brother," Jacob prattled on. "We ain't got the same mom, I know, and I I ain't proud to say it, but I promised to look after him." He heaved for breath, pulse hammering in his chest as the black creature squirmed. "Please, Officer. My brother ain't no sorcerer. He was watching this spectacle, same as everyone else."

Watkins paused, his face softening. "Kowalski, right?"

Agitatedly Jacob nodded.

Somber eyes took note. "I remember her," Officer Watkins said. He looked down at the Brit, his face crinkling uneasily.

"Let me get him to a hospital," Jacob begged. "Please."

The look he received was that of pity, and of hopeless sentiment. "Better hurry," the officer said quietly.

Tensed muscles slumped and Jacob barely nodded, stepping over a nameless woman before crouching to pat the Brit's face. "Hey… Hey… uh, Claude, wake up," he whispered, snatching for the first name he could remember. Not that it was a very memorable name – his neighbor had a dog named Claude, an old, limping beagle that couldn't gnaw its own food anymore – but he was pressed for time. "Claude, c'mon. It's…."

He flinched as Mary Lou's accusations grew shriller. More officers began to glance towards him. Foregoing decency, Jacob curled his fingers into the briefcase handle and awkwardly scooped up both case and Brit. Knobby limbs folded awkwardly in his grip, and he knew he'd be calculating broken bones, dislocations, and probably a whopping concussion at the very least. Nothing he could tend by himself. Certainly nothing he'd trust with the doctors of New York – not when the threat of jail was imminent.

It was time to call in a favor from an old army friend.


	2. Grey Days

New York was the only city where one could hail a cab and rest assured of _no questions asked_. Fortuitous, because even if "Claude" was a lanky sort of guy, he weighed enough, and Jacob was pretty sure an automobile would be less jostling than carrying him through town. (Although witches preferred brooms, right? Did the same count for wizards? How would you ride a broom if you were barely conscious?)

Such meandering questions kept his mind occupied as he fumbled the Brit into the back seat, cringing when the other man groaned. He was a mess; bloodied hair and swollen hands, and shoe prints all over his coat. Closing his eyes briefly, Jacob thrust a factory day's worth of cash at the cabbie and slid inside, tucking the suitcase next to his legs.

Some days it was okay to be ashamed of his own people, right?

His coat bulged as the little critter snuffled into his shoulder. Jacob raised a hand instinctively, patting it down. Thank goodness whatever it was didn't bite.

"Hey, we don't allow stray cats in here," the cabbie said around a pipe as he glanced stubbornly into the mirror. "What is that thing, anyway?"

Sighing, Jacob leafed out another bill and tossed it over the seat.

"Family pet, huh?" the cabbie acquiesced, returning his eyes to the road.

"Yeah, sure," Jacob mumbled. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to fit his toes under the suitcase. What was he doing here, anyway? He was half an hour late to his meeting. The fact that he'd been able to take time from work was due to a rare beam of good favor from the boss. People would know he never showed at the bank, and they'd be talking. Might even get him demoted to tossing dented cans again, just when he was due for a promotion. Mildred might even….

Oh heck, he didn't even want to think about what Mildred was going to say. Jacob cast the Brit a piteous glance. If he wasn't hiding a half-crushed rat, he'd at least put his coat under the guy's head. Puffy eyes were starting to blacken – both of 'em, and he'd probably lost a few teeth given the swollen jaw. They hadn't beat the guy – they'd practically mauled him to death. It was a wonder his lungs were still functioning at all. Jacob had heard the death rattle too many times during the war.

No, Mildred wasn't going to take a half-hearted "He's my ostracized brother" cover story. She knew Jacob was all alone, and that was the only reason she stayed at his apartment. Felt too much like a pity-story and he hated it, but she was the one girl who'd ever given him a second glance. Part of him hoped she'd take to "Claude" and help him heal. A woman always knew how to take care of a guy when he was down.

But Mildred wouldn't, and Jacob suspected he'd already lost her when he turned down the bank meeting. He'd lost his briefcase, his opportunity, his sanity, and now his fiancé, all in the span of twenty minutes.

It really should've been raining; one more touch to compliment his misery.

"Quite a ruckus out there," the cabbie commented. "Guess the cops were slappin' cuffs on som'uns."

Jacob deliberately stared out the window.

"Strange you're takin' him to a complex, not the cross," the cabbie hinted. "Wouldn't it be somethin' if someone were to be lookin' for a foreigner tomorrow?"

If Al Capone was holding a gun to this cab driver's face, Jacob suspected one man would come out with the better deal. He pulled out his wallet, thinking about groceries and what he was going to feed the little pest inside his coat, and tossed a few more dollars over the seat. The folded bills whapped against the window and the cabbie nodded.

"To your apartment, then."

Sometimes Jacob wished he was a really mean guy with a few guns and a lot of money. Life might be a whole lot easier, then.

He slouched in his seat and reminded himself that it was people with guns and condemning words that about pummeled an innocent kid into the road. Not that Claude was all that young – probably closer to Jacob's own age, in fact, but he really wasn't mature in the head if he thought he could stroll into a witch hater's mob and pull out a wand. Even _real_ kids had more sense than that. No child straddled a broom when a Barebone was hovering close by.

Someone really had to teach foreigners how to act in New York City.

And someone _really_ had to enlighten Jacob as to how wizards existed without being picked out by a reporter.

But elucidations and British conduct would have to wait. Jacob had to find a phone first, and get Claude's injuries tended before someone died in his apartment. He'd never be able to explain that to Bill.

Or Mildred. He especially didn't want to talk to her right now.

It was almost a mercy when she took one look at the abraded suitcase in his hand and walked out of the apartment.

She never even looked inside the cab.

* * *

It didn't do Claude any good to be moved a second time. He made some pretty awful noises, and Jacob began to wonder if it'd really be bad if he conked him on the head just to make sure he stayed unconscious. Knees just weren't supposed to shift like that when jostled.

He'd lost the furry squirrel somewhere along the way. It was in the apartment… somewhere... Jacob hoped. After grossly overpaying the cabbie to muster a lie for the rust-stained back seat, he didn't feel like tracking down the Brit's snitching pet. He kicked the suitcase against the wall, settled Claude onto the bed as gently as possible (not possible when the right wrist was dangling funny), and ran to the phone.

Four misdials, a few words that would have given him a lye-coated mouth and Grandmother's most serious frown, hours of waiting that might have been seconds according to his watch, and a groggy voice finally answered, "Hullo?"

"Bill? Bill, it's me. It's Jacob. You know, Jacob Kowalski? Yeah, my grandmother's paczki. Why does everyone remember that? Look, I need your help. – What are you talking about, it's almost eleven o'clock! Bill, it's an emergency – I know everything's an emergency when you're a _doctor_ , but – Bill, you don't understand, I've got a …. You'll come? One hour? He ain't got an hour! Look, I'll explain when you get here! I just need…. Keep him breathing? Watch for … heck, he's unconscious, there's nothing I can do about shock by now…. Bill, I _can't explain_. Just get over here, okay? Yeah, I'll _keep him breathing!_ Twenty minutes? Make it ten – you used to make five in the …. Hello?"

Groaning, Jacob slammed the phone into the receiver. "This is just a dream. I gotta wake up."

He kept telling himself that as he trudged to the icebox and opened the door. Faltering, he scratched his head. Was he supposed to put ice on new injuries, or was that a factor in shock? He didn't pay attention when the doctors sewed up people's arms. Nobody was supposed to look at blood for that long.

"This isn't a dream. It's a nightmare." Shaking his head, Jacob shut the icebox door and grabbed a blanket Mildred had left on the kitchen chair. Warmth was a right step. Warmth and quiet and … and … and somebody who knew how to fix bones and hemorrhages and broken skulls.

"For being an older brother, you sure bungled the job," Jacob mumbled. He found the hot water bottle, a bottle of witch hazel (he wasn't even going to think about the irony), and a few fluffy towels that Mildred wouldn't be back to fuss over if they were stained. Pausing in the bedroom doorway, he heaved a sigh and let the items clatter into a chair.

"Hot water bottle. I guess I can do that."

He didn't want to disturb Claude any further – he'd finally quieted down to a few snuffling murmurs and it'd be cruel to shift him again – but he unlaced the Brit's shoes and carefully eased them off purpling ankles before laying the blanket across him. Backing away apprehensively, Jacob held his breath.

No response.

Good, still out cold. Although maybe that was a bad thing - he should've woken by now - but at least he wasn't aware of any pain.

Hopefully.

Breathing out in a low rush, Jacob stepped back – and promptly fell in a clatter. Muffling another oath, he rubbed his elbow and rolled upright, staring at the rocking silver … eggshell?

Jacob tilted his head to the side. No way would Mildred own anything that valuable, much less leave it behind. It had to be the Brit's.

"This guy's filthy rich," Jacob muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Tell me he's not the prince of England."

Now he was insane as well as dreaming. Might as well accept it. He'd smacked his head too hard on the concrete outside the bank, and now he was hallucinating about wizards and black squirrels and silver eggs that bobbed to and fro.

"Funny dream," Jacob contemplated as he scooped up the rock-egg.

The first thing he noticed was that it was definitely not an antique.

The next thing he heard was an aggrieved _'eep!'_ coming from the direction of Claude's feet. He glanced up, jaw dropping, and scrambled.

"Snake. There's a snake in the room. 'Course there's a snake. What would a wizard be without a blue-finned, feathery serpent?"

He yanked open drawers, searching for Mildred's jewelry box before he remembered she'd never leave that behind. The snake was eyeing Claude's toes with perked interest, and Jacob was pretty sure that whatever venom it carried was immune to most of Bill's antidotes.

"Oh, there's got to be a jam jar or something around here!" Jacob protested, glancing every few seconds at the flaring snake. He nabbed Claude's shoe in desperation, then tossed it at the dresser and seized the hot water bottle instead.

"Come on, snakes like dens under rocks, right?" he cajoled, easing the bottle forward until he was uneasily certain the snake would bite rubber instead of Claude's foot. "That's it, go inside. Nice and dark in there. You'll feel right at home."

With a wary, too-intelligent look from iridescent blue orbs, the serpent compressed its fins and tucked its head inside, retracting its scales until an alarmingly smaller torso and tail followed. Jacob paused only a moment to gape before he clapped the cork inside.

"No hot water bottle, then," he ascertained, setting it beside Claude's briefcase. He faltered, casting the contained animal a second glance. "Did that thing just shrink?" He blinked forcefully and shook himself. "Half out of my mind…."

Turning back to the bed, Jacob froze.

Misted green flickered under one reddening eyelid, tracking his every move. For an instant Jacob felt like the perpetrator in his own apartment. He backed away from the suitcase, almost incented to raise his hands as promise of goodwill and peace towards all bizarre… blue… alarmingly intelligent snakes.

"Easy, fella," Jacob said, keeping his voice low and soft. "It's all right. No witch-haters in here. Pulled you off the streets. This – this is my house. It ain't much, but it's…." He stopped himself before he could get carried away. This was a wounded, full-grown man he was talking to after all, not his neighbor's beagle.

Except there really wasn't much difference between a scared-witless soldier and a confused animal. Lowering himself into the chair close to the bed, Jacob continued in the same even tone, "I brought you here. No police, no Salem society. Safe as can be. Got a doctor coming in; he'll patch you up, good as new."

There wasn't much to read in that slit of green. Pain, obviously – Jacob could tell just the way the wizard's mouth tugged with every shallow pant. He was probably terrified, too, but he looked more like he was searching for something. That flick of green tracked the suitcase, the silver shells on the floor, the open window….

"Uh… are you…." Jacob glanced at the sunlight streaming in, the radiator, anything that might make the Brit more or less comfortable. Water – no, not a good idea if his throat was damaged. Blankets? "You cold?"

A bewildered swish of brown sullied green, and Jacob raised his hands helplessly. "I ain't a doc. I'm sorry, I'm not much use unless…."

He trailed off again, feeling hopelessly inadequate. Why'd he think he could make people happy as a _baker_ if he couldn't even reassure an invalid in his own home?

He didn't have a chance to redeem himself. Hazel eyes shivered closed the moment the doorbell rang.

* * *

 **Of course the niffler ran off again. There be shiny things in Jacob's apartment! He'll be back, in all his adorable niffler-ness...**

 **Leave a gold coin for the lil' guy on your way out. ;)**


	3. Hold Tight and Pray

"I tell ya, Kowalski, I get called outta bed one more time an' I'm runnin' back to the army. At least there we had straight six hours."

Blond, balding, thin-pursed, and scrawny from years of tending house calls, Bill was the only guy Jacob could trust with a wizard on the lam. He was the good neighbor of New York City, always dropping the present task for a kid with a cough or an elderly gentleman with stiff knees. More poor folk had seen better care from Bill than the upper class in hospitals, and his wallet testified every donated splint or jar of beef stock. He never seemed to be in need, though; everyone took care of Ol' Bill.

"I ain't even that old," Bill griped as he slunk inside. "Turned forty last November, and I ain't slept through an house call yet. Where's the kid?"

"I didn't know what to do," Jacob explained as he led the way to the bedroom. "They practically crushed him. It was awful."

"Yeah, I already heard," Bill sympathized. "Twenty-odd people jumpin' on some crackpot immin'grant jist 'cause that boorish Mary caused a fight. I mean, there ain't no magic in New York. Whole thing's a fairy tale. All it takes is one person t'stir up anarchy and then someone gits hurt. Oh, shikaya…."

Freezing in the doorway, Bill shook his head. "Jacob, you weren't kiddin'."

"You can do something, right?" Jacob urged.

"Ee-yah-uh." Still shaking his head, Bill clumped into the room. "Did they put 'im through a meat grinder? That's all gonna be bruises by nightfall – you check if he's alive yet?"

Jacob spluttered. "What kind of question is that?"

"Okay, okay, don't panic," Bill shushed. He set his case on the chair and rubbed his hands fretfully. "Oh, boy. Even the mob bosses ain't so bad." He scratched the back of his head, rubbed his chin, and then flung off his coat. "Well, may's well git started. Least I ain't gonna be called the leadin' cause of death this time."

"Not helping." Jacob glared.

"There ain't no help here, Jake," Bill said pragmatically as he swept off the blanket. "Eegh, looks worse up close. Git me some hot water. Lots'o rags. I'm gonna shred off this coat. Too bad – this guy have a personal tailor?"

Jacob scuttled for the shrieking kettle. Digging for every scrap cloth he could find was a useless distraction. He knew he'd have to return to the cramped, dingy room that already smelled of bile and futility, where Bill would casually exclaim over ever gravel scrape, and Jacob himself would wish he'd never claimed the Brit as kin. It would be easier to help a stranger – he'd held people down for Bill on several occasions. Pretending "Claude" was his brother made this seem… personal.

He hadn't felt so uneasy since holding his ma's hand before the doctor said there was nothing more he could do.

"Hey Jake, there's a hot water bottle here you can use," Bill called from the bedroom. "Fill it up for me, will ya?"

"Uh.…" Snapping back to himself, Jacob snagged a basin from the lower cupboard, balancing the kettle and a score of rags in his left hand. "There's a … a hole in the bottom. Heh. Didn't think _that_ would do any good."

"You know, I got two words'o advice about that Mildred – drop her. Any woman who can't keep a dime's wortha medicinal supplies on hand ain't worth marrying."

"Yeah, I've heard that one before." Jacob caught up the last rag with his fingertips and gingerly carted everything to the bedroom. Bill was already rolling up his shirtsleeves, having divested the Brit of his blue coat and everything else.

"Would ya believe it, the durn thing wouldn't cut," he said, eyeing the coat with a marveling huff. "Whoever makes this guy's suits, I'm gettin' my church getup there. Say, I can't even see how this guy's breathin'! They sure tried to mush'im. Strange his ribs ain't pulverized by now. Put the basin down there – I've got my work cut out for me….."

Jacob tried to filter out the one-sided jargon. He helped as best he could; fetched boiling water, braced a dislocated shoulder, closed his eyes at the blood, counted seconds while tilting a mesh screen of ether over Claude's face whenever he began to rouse. (That was terribly often, until even Bill was disturbed enough to mutter an apology when he tested a wrenched limb.)

"I don' like putting him out again," Bill admitted. "It's against every law in medical school. But miser's cats, he's gotta be hurting. Knee there's about twisted backwards. That's enough t'send a general hollering for his mother. Dislocated hip, too – don't ask how scruciating that can be. See those prints on his right wrist? That break's no accident; someone tried t'yank it three ways."

Severe grey eyes raked into Jacob. "Seriously, Jake – who tried to kill him? Don't tell me it was another witch scare."

Jacob took a deep breath. "Look, all I know is, Mary Lou started something and he took the brunt of it. I tried to stop them."

"Well, I was gonna mention you look like you walked inta a light post," Bill said casually.

"Just…." Jacob held up his hand. "No questions. Please. The less anyone knows about this, the better."

"Jake, you're actin' like he robbed the bank," Bill tutted. "I ain't rattin' on anyone."

"I know," Jacob said hurriedly. "It's just that…."

Bill rolled his eyes. "Ol' Mary Lou's got your cat uppa tree. What'd she do, call your mother a witch?"

"If only it was that easy." Jacob lacked the energy to banter, and Bill was infallibly perceptible.

"So he caused more of a ruckus than a stray monkey and a firecracker."

Jacob swiveled and almost batted Bill's arm. The army doctor hissed a filthy oath.

"Darnit, Jake, I'm holding a scalpel! Unless you want more than a piece'o glass chunked outta this kid's leg, move outta my way!"

"What firecracker?" Jacob prodded.

A scarlet blade was waved in front of his nose and he closed his eyes, suddenly dizzy.

"Workin' with a blade," Bill said darkly. He thrust a towel into Jacob's hand. "That's three inches of filthy bottle buried in his thigh. Keep the blood out while I yank it free."

Bill's terminology was coarse, but he wasn't stupid. 'Yank it free' implied what felt like hours of careful incisions around a wicked piece of jagged, dark glass. Jacob breathed shallowly, constantly reminding himself that he'd seen worse, that it wasn't like this guy had lost a leg.

He hadn't seen this much blood in a long while, all the same.

"Ribs should be smashed," Bill repeated as he tugged the glass out of a horrible gash. He poured alcohol over the wound and Claude jolted, whimpering. "Sorry, kid."

Once bandages covered a neat row of stitches, Bill paused to rest his hands. "Something funny's goin' on here."

"You mean the monkey?" Jacob pressed.

"I mean he should be dead," Bill enunciated. "Maybe there was three kids in the crowd, an a couple lady-folk. They're nicer. Even if there were only fifteen guys poundin' him, that's sixty limbs, Jacob. Oh, his ribs are broked plenty enough, kidney's might have problems, an' he's gonna have a fine time crawling around the next few weeks, but we're talkin' ruptured spine, crushed organs, internal bleeding….."

"Stop, stop, stop," Jacob said, holding up his hands. "Just tell me how he's still alive."

"That's jist it," Bill considered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Call it Saint Mary or angels or whatever you like, I can't feel anythin' slipped up internally. How'd you find him, anyway?"

Jacob's throat worked as he tried to swallow. "Unconscious in the middle of it all."

Huddled up, knees drawn into his chest, coat lapel flung over his head. Jacob thought that if he'd had a kid brother, and if that stupid idiot had been Claude, he'd have killed a man for putting him in that state.

It was easier to be detached when you didn't give someone a name.

"Okay, don't talk to me, then," Bill censured. "You know you're an horrible conversationalist when I'm workin'. C'mon, hold his leg. I'll set that ankle and then see 'bout his skull. Jemimah's kittens, he's gonna have a hangover the likes I hope I'll never see."

The one-sided prattle continued, and Jacob didn't have the strength to join in. He winced when Claude yelped, jerked out of his delirium by a savage yank that _snicked_ his ankle in place, then hovered while Bill took advantage of the Brit's half-conscious state to peer into his eyes and ask soft, prompting questions. Name, date, city of origin, what'd he come to New York for, that was interesting, and what was he going to do with a … whatever it was called?

"He's bonkers," Bill said sadly as Claude's eyes closed. "Ain't got half a mind left. Jake, you realize what you're into. He's gonna need help. They'll take him to an institution if they hear two words of that nonsense."

"I know," Jacob said softly. He'd already figured that out when the Brit sacrificed himself for a suitcase and a duck-billed mole. Jacob met Bill's eyes and said evenly, "I'll get him back on his feet."

"You're sure?" Bill said. No argument, just practical reasoning. "He's gonna be crippled for a while. You're gonna be responsible for everything, and it ain't gonna be comfortable for either of you. I'm talkin' bedpans, hallucinations, nausea, he's not gonna know where he is, probably has family lookin' for him….."

"I got it," Jacob interrupted wearily. "I think I can handle it."

"No, you can't," Bill said pragmatically, "But you will. You're stubborn, you know that? Can't stop yourself, just have to help someone because you figure no one else can do the job."

"Sounds familiar?" Jacob retorted with a crooked smile.

"Least I have the credentials." Bill clapped Jacob's shoulder, spread a blanket over Claude, and stooped to gather his tools. "Huh: scope's vanished. Mind you find that, I'll need it again. Sorry to leave you on short notice. Gotta kid with croup down the road. Doctor's work is never done."

"Thank you," Jacob said, pushing all of his weary gratitude into the words. "Can I get you anything?" He leafed through his wallet, a little alarmed at the remaining cash, and thrust most of it at his friend.

"Nah, forget it," Bill said, waving him away. He faltered, raised a hand, and then pulled out a couple bills. "For supper. No, don't insist, you'll need it for him. Light broth for a couple days, nothing too rich, bone marrow in a day or two if he can handle it. Change the dressings twice a day; there's salve on the dresser. Use the morphine sparingly, and keep the bandages dry. I'll be here tomorrow evening to check on him."

"Bill, the monkey," Jacob interjected. "What did they say about it?"

"Really, Jake?" Bill deadpanned. "Fine. Kid's bob-tailed ape snitched someone's coin and the whole crowd got into a hoopla because Mary Lou's a bloody blasphemist and mistook a firecracker for a blast of magic. That's what I heard. I wasn't there – you were the witness. Why is this so important?"

"Nothing – not important at all," Jacob said hurriedly. "Heh… just wanted to know what the public was saying."

"No one's gonna peg you as a criminal, Jake," Bill said compassionately. "Look, everything will be fine. Send word to the factory, let them know your second-aunt's-cousin's-nephew – something or other related – is laid up and you're responsible for his care. I'll document it for you. You won't lose your job."

"That's… that's real good of you, Bill," Jacob said with a clipped nod. "Exactly what I needed to know."

"Sorry about Mildred," Bill said, waving his hat before clapping it over his thinning hair. "Keep lively, Jake. Another girl will come along. And good luck."

"Yeah… uh… thanks." Waggling his fingers in uneasy farewell, Jacob snapped the door closed and hurried back up to his apartment. The staircase seemed longer somehow, as though the length of a few extra steps could determine whether Claude took another breath.

By the time Jacob bolted his door and dashed into the bedroom, his heart was pounding like a racehorse cornered against the rail. He searched the room for anything out of place. Suitcase on the spare chair. Shells on the floor. Hot water bottle undisturbed. (At least he'd had enough mind to cut a tiny hole in the base, or the poor creature might have suffocated.) Claude was unconscious, still in the same position the doc had left him in. Nothing was amiss save for the blue-green serpent that was stretching towards _eight feet long_ beside the window.

"Aw, you've gotta be kidding me," Jacob whispered.

* * *

 **I am a firm believer in the Magical Blue Coat theory, which protects Newt from all fatal harm. How else would he have survived the movie without a ruptured spine? (Theseus probably spelled it to keep his idiot brother from dying on his misadventures.)**


	4. That Ain't No Garter Snake

"Okay, okay," Jacob whispered to himself as his eyes darted from the door to the window to the swiftly growing serpent. "Huge snake in the room. Hot water bottle ain't working. Oh, if only this was a dream."

Army protocol didn't exactly cover magical scaled monsters.

"Hey…. Hey, Brit," Jacob stammered as the creature rose higher. "C'mon, wake up and work with me here, _please_ ….."

The snake tilted its flared head, looking between Claude and Jacob with something oddly like… perplexity. Jacob wasn't sure how to interpret snake introspections, but if the creature had been a dog he'd have thought it was trying to figure out which human was the master. Now if it was like a cat, it might be trying to decide who to eat first….

Jacob just hoped it was the former, and that this creature had some _shred_ of intelligence.

"Ok…ay…." He rubbed his hands, analyzing the monster as if it was the boa constrictor that some greasy-haired breeder of exotic (illegal) pets had been trying to peddle some months ago.

 _"They eat mithe and rats,"_ the peddler had lisped past several missing teeth. _"Velly gentle."_

"Gentle," Jacob repeated, wishing he sounded more convincing to himself. "Gentle. Only eats mice and rats. He … he won't hurt me, right?"

His confidence plunged into an uncertain squawk as the beast lowered its beaked snout, snuffling his face, suit and hair. Snippy chirps could have implied curiosity or hunger – sparrows tended to chirrup the same way before crunching down a beetle. Jacob breathed shallowly through his nose, hoping Bill wouldn't reenter to find a nest of bones and shredded suit. He'd thought a lot about dying – being in the army, no one could ignore the inevitable – but digesting in dragon juices never made the list of least-volatile ways to go.

Actually, it never made the list. Because stuff like this wasn't supposed to be _real_.

"What, you want my coat?" Jacob squirmed as the creature tried to thrust its nose into his waistcoat pocket. "Are we even holding a conversation? 'Cause… uh… there's lots of rats in the basement. Landlord would throw a fit if he saw you, but since you're shrinkable he may not mind."

The serpent snuffled and withdrew its beak, poking into Jacob's other pocket. It scuttled back instantly and waved its snout, spraying crumbs.

"Yeah. Breakfast – hey, I eat the same stuff I bake," Jacob said defensively. No need to ratify his grandmother's recipes with a snake, but he'd already figured this day wasn't going to get any weirder.

The serpent curved its vertebrae, head half upside-down as it waited for Jacob to do … something. He raised his hands ignorantly.

"Hey, I'm not the guy with the suitcase. You want something, talk to…. Well, that ain't happening." Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Jacob puffed a sigh. This beast was definitely behaving more like a dog than a cat, but that didn't make it any more understandable. He didn't talk magic snake lingo.

"What's a guy doing carrying that thing around in his pocket, anyway?" How'd the Brit get past security, anyhow? Englanders were strange. It'd be fine if Claude was aware enough to deal with his pets, but Jacob's last memory of owning an animal was when he suffocated his grandmother's cat. (It was an _accident_. Apparently fluffy things weren't meant to be hugged by small children.) But that just proved he wasn't good with animals. The kid down the street had a blind crow, the neighbor across the hall had a beagle, and Jacob had…. Well, now he had _Claude_. And apparently both of Claude's pets.

"This is ridiculous."

Resisting the urge to scratch the inquisitive beak tilted above him, Jacob eyed the suitcase. There must be some sort of feed for unnatural wildlife stowed inside.

The blue serpent followed his gaze, and Jacob edged towards the suitcase. "You want something in there?" Maybe it just _thought_ he was leading it to food. He could still be the third course in eccentric snake chow. "You wanna go inside?"

Heck, if this twelve-foot reptile could have squeezed into a hot water bottle, a suitcase should hold it just fine. Jacob hoped it wouldn't find a way to squirm outside of the confines again. Taking a deep breath, he flipped the locks and flung the case open, jumping behind it and holding on as a freighter of blue and emerald rammed into the center.

 _It's not shrinking…_ was Jacob's first thought, followed instantly by … _How deep is this case?"_

The purplish tail flicked inside. There was a screech, then a roar from deep below. Exhaling shakily, Jacob pushed the lid down with his fingertips. He closed his eyes when it _snicked_ shut, and delicately clicked the bolts down. Falling back against the wall, he mopped a hand across his forehead.

A horrible thought pulsed through his chest.

"If that's the size of a baby snake, how am I going to explain it if the duck-mole starts growing?"

* * *

After a 'twelve-foot duck-moles' failed to materialize in his apartment, Jacob took his time setting the coffee pot on the stove and making sense of the ransacked kitchen. Mildred hadn't taken much – her jewelry case and her mother's teacups seemed to warrant the most fuss on a drizzly morning – but the silverware drawer had been ransacked and the sugar bowl was gone. Even the tin cup from Jacob's mess kit had disappeared.

"You had to take that?" Jacob scratched his head. "What was the point?"

Either Mildred was irrationally livid with him, or she'd suddenly discovered an appreciation for military souvenirs. It'd be too much to hope that she'd taken the cup because she thought she'd miss him.

"Okay, then…." Fetching the only mug he had left, Jacob eyed it dubiously and then shrugged. A little dusty perhaps, but it was clean. He didn't have a spare now that Mildred had taken all the China, but he could make due. There was a quart measurement he used for flour. That would be suitable for him for a day or two, and Claude ….

Thinking again, he rinsed the mug a second time. No sense taking chances.

Fifteen minutes later, fidgeting for a comfortable position in a hard chair, balancing the morning paper in one hand and a quart-sized cup of coffee in the other, trying to concentrate on tiny black words instead of the urge to curl up on the rug and shut his eyes, Jacob finally began to calm down. He wasn't snake chow. There weren't any more nasty surprises hiding in the room. (He hoped.) Once Claude woke – and given Bill's assessment of his brain damage, that might take a long time – Jacob would ask him a few gentle, prodding questions. Like what a Brit was doing with a suitcase full of animals in the first place, and if he really was insane like Bill thought.

First, though, he'd just worry about the present. Like whether or not Claude was going to regain consciousness and how much he could handle before looping out. He'd probably feel like Jacob did in front of that beady-eyed snake – alone and _very_ aware of a flanking predator. After all, he'd just gotten beat up by New-Yorkers. Worst thing probably was to wake up to another stranger, only to find himself completely helpless.

Well, Jacob might not have been the most supportive, reassuring guy, but he knew how to talk to wounded soldiers. More than one delirious young man had called him "Pa" or – embarrassingly enough – "Mama," or some other name relating to kin. He figured if he could be mistaken for a friendly face that easily, then he could play big brother well enough.

Stupid kid probably needed one.

* * *

 _He saw Mary Lou Barebone holding the Brit's wand over her head, chanting as black clouds unfurled behind her. The thin reed snapped, showering blue sparks, and then she was dancing in fire, her clothes burning as she pointed to the street, hollering about witches._

 _A little black creature scuttled away from the flames, fur smoking, and peered up at Jacob in terror. He moved to help, but suddenly he was behind the mob again, trying to yank them away from Claude._

 _"You'll kill him! Get off!"_

 _Mary Lou began singing as fire scorched the bank walls. Before the flames, her eldest child continued to hand out pamphlets. One of them fluttered to Jacob's feet. A crude drawing of a monstrous snake stared, intelligent and docile as a hungry canine. Rain splashed in a sudden accumulation of puddles. Jacob looked back into the mob, but there were only people milling uneasily, and Claude wasn't there._

 _"Hey! Hey, have you seen him?" Jacob shouted, grabbing a man's shoulder. "The wizard? He's got a blue coat. Has anybody seen him? He's hurt!"_

 _Another stranger handed him a coat – blue and mottled with boot prints. Jacob's arm shook as he searched the ground._

 _"Where is he? Please, someone help me find him!"_

 _He saw Bill across the street and ran towards him, dodging people as the sidewalk suddenly became too full. A cab pulled in front of him and there was an awful_ _ **thump**_ _, and he knew he'd look down and see Claude limp on the street, blood running into his eyes and –_

It was the _thump_ that broke into Jacob's dream and he jerked upright, fumbling to catch his upended measuring cup. "Aw, you gotta be kidding me," he moaned, shaking his feet out of a coffee puddle. "Landlord's gonna know that wasn't…."

The measuring cup fell with a dull clank. Jacob sprinted to crouch beside the heap of whimpering, bloody-lipped wizard who was trying unsuccessfully to drag himself across the floor - a difficult task with a bound arm, splinted leg and broken right wrist.

"Whoa, whoa! No getting out of bed. Doctor's orders!" Jacob scolded, half amazed that Claude was aware enough to roll out of bed and half terrified that he'd further hurt himself. He fumbled his arms under the Brit, lifting him easily to the bed. Claude grunted out something that might have sounded like "matters" or "meters" if he didn't have puffed cheeks and a back full of rippling, cramped muscles.

"Okay. It's okay," Jacob shushed, stuffing a pillow under Claude's head and rearranging the blankets so he was more comfortable. "My name is Jacob. This is my place. I brought you here so the cops wouldn't impound you. You're safe."

Sharpened green glinted in a swarm of bruised flesh, flicking from Jacob to the far corner and back again. Yeah, the guy had to be in agony. Whirling away, Jacob grabbed the bottle that Bill had left behind and measured out a wobbling tablespoon.

"Here. It's morphine – it'll help with the pain." He eased the spoon forward, wondering if Claude could even swallow, and sighed when the spoon was batted aside.

Accusation scoured him from that one good eye.

"This isn't my fault!" Jacob protested. "I'm trying to help you!"

Pain was bleeding through in swirls of brandy. Again the Brit's gaze latched onto the trunk.

"Oh, no," Jacob said calmly. "I'm not opening that thing. Not until – "

Panicked hazel speared into him and Claude's gasp heaved into a spraying cough. He keened, drawing his elbows against his ribs, and Jacob grabbed the bottle.

"Here – just a swallow! I promise this'll take care of everything." What a stretch – morphine couldn't fix broken ribs – but either his tone or his promises persuaded Claude to trust him. Cracked lips parted and Jacob tilted an arm under the Brit's shoulders, helping him swallow. Brown slushed into green as the painkiller took hold.

"S'okay," Jacob reassured as Claude blinked heavily. The right hand flopped, splinted fingers twitching out before they went limp.

"Might've been too heavy a dose," Jacob admitted reluctantly. He settled Claude down, peeking under the bandage around his skull in case something was bleeding again. Satisfied that he couldn't do any more, he tucked the blankets closer….

And then sighed.

Retracting his hand from the wet spot, he breathed in and out slowly, preparing himself for the inevitable. He really hated this part of hospitals. One more reason why he never wanted to be a doctor.

"Hope that dose was strong much," Jacob said apologetically, "Cause I'm gonna have to move you again. This'll just take a sec'."

He was starting to understand why Bill talked to himself so much. It was easier to ignore the patient when he was consumed with dissected observations. Like how the Brit must've been surviving on hardtack for months, he was scrawny enough, and maybe those scars Bill had been exclaiming over were actually from magical beasties like the serpent, instead of a war camp. Jacob talked about magic, and how he hoped Claude wasn't involved in any recent, improbable architectural damage, and he wondered what he was supposed to feed the wizard's pets.

"I don't even know where the mole is," Jacob said as he replaced the sheets. "I should've taken you to a hospital. Bill's right – I don't know what I'm doing. This stuff is for professionals. I can't even fold a bandage."

He was doing everything wrong, and he knew it, and Bill would shake his head when he came in next time and declare Jacob to be the most inept nurse he'd ever been misfortunate enough to be deployed with, but at least the Brit was still alive. That had to mean something, right?

"Is it spells, or just luck?" Jacob mused as he lifted Claude back onto the bed. The Brit's mouth twitched in distress, but the morphine held firm. Jacob shook his head.

"I'm really sorry. I shouldn't be the one looking after you. There's tons of people – doctors, nurses… maybe even witch healers. But until we find one of those…. I guess I'm all you got".

He looked at swathes of bandages holding broken flesh together and bowed his head. He was a clumsy factory laborer trying to patch up a master of magic. Life really hadn't given Claude the best lot.

But Jacob was the one who had taken him off the scene, away from hospitals and the public's judgment. Claude was his responsibility now. He didn't have any skills to offer, but he would do his best.

Maybe that in itself would be enough.


	5. Assiduousness

Jacob had never worked with Bill during the night shifts. He'd helped out, yeah, but that was during off-duty hours, when the doctors were yanking in every able body in to hold a man down. He'd never had to deal with _after_.

Like how a patient could lash out in a sudden half-possessed dream, trying to take out the lamp and the dresser with an imaginary wand. Or how frequently the bedsheets had to be changed – a body just didn't keep up when it came to fevered sweats, vomiting and other _unpleasant messes_. Jacob just reminded himself that there wasn't blood, and that was a good thing, right?

He never realized how _tired_ Bill must be all the time. He thought it was bad enough trying to make a guy with two broken limbs and a swollen shoulder rest, but sometimes Bill had been the only doctor for an entire outfit. It made Jacob wish he'd offered to help more; given his friend a few extra minutes to shut his eyes. He'd always woken Bill straightaway on the hour, never really thinking about how hard it must be to go back inside that tent. He'd figured doctors were used to that sort of thing. It was their job.

"Should've let me pay you," Jacob mumbled, rubbing his palm over eyes that felt like sawdust. Claude was twitching again, his dreams forcing more pain upon him. Every time he woke there was the same frantic glow in his squinting eye, until the swelling in his face reached its peak after midnight.

He roused several times after that, struggling blindly. He raked his splinted wrist through the air, measuring how far he would have to plummet to the floor, before Jacob pushed him back against the wall, sitting on the edge of the bed to keep the dolt from rolling off.

It didn't make it any easier that Claude behaved as if he was used to this – familiar with being in pain and struggling to find something when he shouldn't even be able to move. It just didn't seem right. Not right at all.

Toward morning, the Brit finally quieted. Too exhausted to do anything but inhale, still fighting after his body had given up. Jacob changed the dressings and laid a fresh towel on the mattress – the sheets were still hanging out to dry – before sinking into a chair. Claude's gashed leg was a putrid, swollen mass of black and sticky green, and Jacob had emptied half the jar of salve in hopes that slathering enough on the wound would ease the infection.

He forced himself to get up, anxious that Claude would tumble out of bed again if he slept, and set fresh coffee on the stove. There wasn't a spoon to stir it with – even the one for the morphine had vanished. Scrabbling for another utensil, Jacob finally wrestled a wooden spoon out of the back of Mildred's clutter drawer. His stomach rumbled and he ignored it. He just felt too ill to eat.

Come to think of it, it wasn't just his stomach that was growling. Warily approaching the bedroom, Jacob peered around the door and scrutinized the Brit's suitcase. There was definitely something alive in there, and it wasn't hissing like a snake.

A louder, insistent screech followed a scritch of claws. Jacob's gut clenched. Whatever was in there, it was probably supposed to be fed sooner or later. Definitely it would need air. Water. He couldn't just coop an animal in the wizard's suitcase and expect it to survive.

But what was he supposed to _do_ with it?

Too drained to think, Jacob thunked into the bedside chair and leaned his head against the wall. Just five minutes. He'd rest his eyes, get a cup of coffee, and then call the factory. He'd tell them….

Jacob lanced awake to the smell of burning coffee grinds and the sounds of a twitching, miserable Claude. He checked on the latter, decided Claude was too cataleptic to rouse concern, dashed to retrieve the coffee, and spent fifteen minutes ushering smoke out of the window.

Somewhere during that fifteen minutes, a missing guest found its way onto Jacob's observational chair. It nosed around until it found the pocket watch that had been tossed aside in the early morning hours. Tucking the timepiece into its pouch, it waddled onto the bed, sniffed despondently at rust-flecked curls, and then scuttled under the frame, burrowing into a discarded brown vest in the corner. There it emptied its newfound possessions – a dull gold watch, a brass button, a gaudy hairpin, and a few shards of silver shell – into the clanking heap of spoons and stethoscope and battered tin cup. It curled amidst the tarnished treasures and tucked in its nose, shivering.

* * *

Bill arrived mercifully early that afternoon. He took one look at Jacob and shoved him into a chair. "Shut up. I don't need help an' you're half as dead as he is."

"He woke up this morning," Jacob said blearily.

"And several times last night, I'll wager. Any coherent mumblin's, or jist headswimmers?"

"He didn't say anything," Jacob said around a yawn. "He pulled his arm out of the sling, though."

"Great Harrison's beard, he's a fighter," Bill said from the bedroom. Jacob heard the predictable thump of the doctor's coat hitting the wall.

He woke up seconds later to a hand rocking his shoulder.

"C'mon, Jake. You ain't as old as me yet."

"Huh… what?" Snorting, Jacob raised his head and immediately grabbed his neck. "Owww!"

Bill smirked. The dark lines under his eyes were more prominent than the night before. "Now you know what a doctor gits t'feel every morning. Up an'at'em, Jacob. I already slit his leg, drained the infection, and made him sleep. He's your responsibility again. I've got a couple kids t'tend to. Oldest girl's gotta mighty reprehensive cough and I ain't easy about leavin' her an' her siblings alone. You'll do fine now, won't you?"

Scratching madly at his scalp, Jacob groaned. "How long did I sleep?"

"Hour an' a half," Bill said smugly. "Hospital hours. Ain't it fun?"

"Yeah, yeah." Jacob waved him off. "So you're leaving again? Is he gonna be all right?"

"You didn't hear a word I said," Bill chided. "Keep putting salve on that leg – he kin keep it if the infection goes down, otherwise…."

He broke off with a nod of forewarning. Jacob swallowed.

"Oh, and go easier on the morphine," Bill warned as he slid on his hat. "You'll knock him smack onto it and that's a pain to wean off. _Spoons_ , Jacob. Don't let'im drink straight from the bottle."

"Yeah. Spoons. I had one of those," Jacob muttered.

Bill rolled his eyes. "You're never volunteering." He fiercely jabbed his index finger under Jacob's nose. "Ever. After th'kid goes off, stay away from my patients."

"Oh, I won't go near them," Jacob promised fervently.

"Uh-huh." Bill straightened his collar and waved behind him. "Keep workin' t'wards that bakery, Jacob. Heaven knows the factory's smelted your brains."

"Haven't given up yet – oh!" Jacob broke off, snatching out as something green and wriggly tumbled off of Bill's coat. He cupped it in his hands, already figuring it was more than a stickbug. Of course it was magic. Everything was magic these days. "Take good care of those kids!" he called after Bill.

"Never marry!" his friend shouted back.

Quickly shutting the door, Jacob opened his hands and squinted at the fluttering, leafed being. It's definitive _face_ was pulled into an unhappy scowl.

"Yeah, I'd be mad too if someone dropped his coat on me," Jacob sympathized, carrying the creature into the bedroom. He eyed the suitcase, debating, and then strode past it and opened the shades, lowering the plant-being onto a sunny patch of windowpane. It tilted its head quizzically and hopped down. One twiggy arm beckoned towards Claude.

"Yeah, he's pretty bad off," Jacob admitted, shoulder slumping. "The doc's been helping as best he can."

Waving its leaves frantically, the plant gestured at the far corner of the room.

"Not opening it," Jacob said adamantly. "There's snakes in there."

A forlorn howl resounded from the case. Jacob closed his eyes, guilt clenching his chest.

"Yet," he amended. "I'm not ready to open it _yet_."

The plant folded its leaves before itself like a begging child, and Jacob looked away. He couldn't believe it: he was feeling awful for a _plant_. This magical business was a horrible disaster.

"Fine," Jacob said grumpily. "But I need coffee first." Coffee, and a chance to convince himself that he wasn't as stupid as he thought.

Because anybody who willingly walked into a den of monsters was beyond maniacal intransigence.

At least that's what Bill would have said, if he'd been there. Jacob had no idea what the word _intransigence_ meant, but it was always used to describe some knucklehead about to take on a suicide mission.

Well, if this mission was maniacal, then Jacob was definitely the intransigence, and since he was the only one in the room, he may as well hop to it. No one else was gonna feed those critters.

He had a feeling his future death was going to be pretty painful.

* * *

There was no coffee, of course. The pot was hopelessly charred and the only substitute left in the cupboard was Mildred's favorite tea. It was weak, swishy, and tasted mildly like liquid newspaper. Jacob wondered if Mildred forgot to pack the rest of the teabags, or if they meant as little to her as her previous relationship. Old, papery, and tasteless. The more he lived without her, the more he realized he didn't want her back.

The apartment sure felt lonely, though.

Choking on the realization that his apartment was a lot less empty with two monsters and their caretaker taking residence (and perhaps many more hiding in a suitcase he desperately wanted to avoid), Jacob scrambled for the newspaper and the most minimal sense of logic. He flapped it open and peered at the upside-down script, mouthing the foreign-looking words, and then chastened himself and turned it over.

 ** _Wizard Farce Impounds Salem Advocator_** the bold print read. Jacob spluttered into his measuring quart. He set it aside, coughing, and spread the newspaper over the table.

 _'Activist Mary Lou Barebone was arrested on Tuesday for inciting a mob over accusations of wizardry,"_ the column read. _"An unknown foreigner in possession of a small animal is considered responsible for inciting the accusations. (Speculations vary over whether the animal in question was a tailless coon or a small ape.) George Klein, a witness on scene, stated that the animal was pilfering his earnings when a frightened observer kicked it into the foreigner's hands._

 _"I saw it with my own eyes," Klein reported. "It were a funny thing. More like a rat than a monkey, t'were a disgusting, mangy thing."_

 _Observer Julia Malott said the item that sparked Barebone's allegation was a firecracker that fell out of the foreigner's pocket._

 _"I don't know ezactly how it started," Malott stated. "I think he was a magi-sian – you know, a card player. Certainly handsome, but so… strange."'_

Jacob spread his hands in disbelief. "A firecracker? Come on, this guy had a wand!"

He gawked when he saw Bill's name in the column.

 _'"There ain't no witches in New York," Doctor Bill Garrison proclaimed. "Some innegrant with a fancy writing stick an' a bobcat hopped onta the wrong train."'_

"Oh, boy," Jacob said, scrubbing the back of his neck. "These guys…. They really have no idea?"

How could an entire lightning show have taken place in front of the New York bank without anyone attributing it to magic?

"How?" Jacob whispered. He turned the page, dispirited when it lagged into a count of the wounded and damage reports. Two people had been dragged into the mob and had been trampled to death: a teenage boy – one of ten siblings, and a man whose business firm would be sorely missing his funds. Thirteen people had been hospitalized, seven impounded, and twelve held on bail. Property damages included a shattered cab window and an unhinged suitcase carrying a variety of squashed pastries.

After the first paragraph, there wasn't a word about the foreigner. With a jarring sigh, Jacob closed the newspaper and slid a hand across it to smooth the creases. His chest was pulsing.

He might have sat there for an hour longer, just mulling over the impossibilities of a falsified report, but a _thud_ from the bedroom made him groan.

"Okay, I get it. Can't give me a moment's peace." Dragging himself out of his chair, he slunk to the room and shook his head at the pitiful lump curled beside the bed.

"Couldn't wait for me to get here, huh?"

The single green eye was open again, overcast with humiliation and dread. Jacob plastered on a cheap smile, hoping he didn't look as foreboding as a black cat crouching over a mouse. The Brit couldn't even hold himself up – cheek pressed against the filthy rug, wounded leg leaking into the bandage, eyelid drooping as he struggled to stay awake. He peered at Jacob determinedly, vision roving to the suitcase before he forcibly concentrated on Jacob again.

"Aw, c'mon," Jacob said pityingly, stooping to lift Claude back onto the mattress. "I leave for five minutes and you're trying to break your other arm."

Puffed cheeks wobbled as the open eye rapidly blinked. He was either straining to form words or he was trying really hard not to cry. Jacob figured it was probably both. Flinging himself around with two broken limbs had to be wrecking the kid.

Okay, so not a kid. Still unbelievably senseless with delusions of indestructibility. Jacob wordlessly settled the Brit and then lightly yanked his ear. Surprise filtered into troubled hazel.

"No more jumping out of bed," Jacob ordered. "Doctor says you'll lose the leg if you don't take it easy. I'm siding with you, okay? So give me some help here."

Frustration narrowed the green slit and Claude's jaw strained again. "K-k-k… Khhhh."

He gasped, squeezing both eyes tightly, and ground his head into the pillow. A clenched whimper escalated into a shrieking yelp that had Jacob scrambling for the morphine.

"Okay – it's okay – I've got this – just give me a…." A _spoon_ – where were the dang spoons?

By the time he snatched the bottle, Bill's orders be hanged, the Brit was already unconscious. Bloody crescents stained the pillowcase. The morphine bottle clacked onto the table and Jacob buried his face in his hands.

He was no doc. He wasn't equipped for any of this.

He wasn't prepared to watch the kid die.

A forlorn screech rose from the case. Hurting. Anguished. _Alone_.

Shaking, Jacob shuffled back, retreating to the suitcase and the nightmares inside; the terrifying creatures this wizard was frantically trying to reach. Jacob knew he wouldn't stop until whatever it was in there was tended. He'd taken responsibility for Claude; pledged to shelter him and bring him back to health.

It was time he stopped cowering behind a nursemaid's façade.

Thumbing the latches, Jacob forced his clammy hands to raise the lid. His arms quaked as he peered into the dark interior. Cold wind accompanied a fuming squeal. There was a ladder, moss-laden and yellow, leading into formidable depths. Jacob wavered, bracing the lid to close it for good.

A twitch at his pant leg made him look down. The twig stared up at him, a bright patch of green amidst four dismal walls. That creature had come from Claude's case. Maybe… Jacob dared to hope…. Maybe not everything down there wasn't dangerous. Maybe it'd be worth taking a look… giving the beasts a chance…. It had to be worth the risk.

He cupped his hand beside the plant, grateful when it clambered onto his sleeve. Lifting it onto his shoulder, Jacob turned around and planted his first step onto the shuddering ladder.

Too late to retreat now.

* * *

 **I recently found a theory (not sure if it's been confirmed) that Newt could be autistic. This makes more sense to me, since I have an autistic brother (although you wouldn't even know he was autistic unless you hung out with him), and the "awkward, naiive" traits that Newt demonstrates are very similar. It would explain why he treats magic frivolously and glosses over potentially dangerous escaped magical beasts without even realizing how much damage he's causing in a world much bigger than his own.**

 **I guess some people think it's an insult to those with autism, but I'd be happy if there was a wizard in J.K. Rowling's world who was like someone very dear to me.**

 **Thoughts? Theories? Opinions on the subject?**


	6. Wonderland Ain't Exactly a Cup of Sugar

He missed the last three steps, tumbling in a heap of fear when an animal blared several feet away. Gawking, Jacob raised his hand and tried to form a coherent thought.

 _Big_ and _Rhino_ were the only plausible syllables that strung together as he stared at the creature blocking the doorway. Aw, no way that thing could fit inside a suitcase.

"Magic!" Jacob whispered hoarsely. "It's all magic."

And magic was about to get him killed. He dragged himself up, never taking his eyes off the beast, and braced himself against a cluttered workbench. Thank heavens the creature wasn't trying to break into the shack. Of course, it might only be a matter of time before –

Something yanked on Jacob's trouser leg and he shrieked. Jolting away, he grabbed the first weapon at hand – a stack of papers smeared with unfinished sketches - and searched for the invisible stalker.

Silver fur materialized first, accompanying a pair of pan-sized blue eyes. Jacob stared at it, feeling less astonished than he should. _So there **was** a monkey…._

"Ea – Easy fella," he stammered, setting the papers down and scrabbling for anything distinctively shield-like. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

His voice squeaked humiliatingly. Why'd he come down here without the Brit? No one would even think to search for his body in here! Although he'd heard of some pretty nasty lairs where criminals stored body parts….

"Please don't eat me," Jacob said feebly.

The silver monkey blinked, sky-blue orbs transitioning into a golden hue. Slinking forward, it reached out with an expression that Jacob could only relate to his great aunt tucking a sweet into his hand when he squirmed during chapel, and tugged his trouser leg again.

"Wha – What do you want?" Jacob asked.

The creature tilted its head considerately and then hopped to the wall, reaching up for a bucket of raw pink glop. It looked at Jacob solemnly, held up the bucket, and shuffled towards the door.

"You … you want me to go out there?" Jacob translated. "Heh! Now I'm talking to monkeys. Don't you think it's safer… you know… inside?"

Insistently the silver monkey jiggled the bucket.

 _You asked for this,_ Jacob told himself. _You said you'd be responsible for Claude's monsters._

Grimacing, he detached himself from the workbench and accepted the bucket. The monkey waved persistently and the rhino backed away, giving Jacob room to squeeze past. He swallowed, eyeing the crushing, heavy feet and the horn that was nearly as long as he was tall.

"Okay…. Where are we going?" he asked the monkey. It took his hand, leading him past the rhino and further away from the shack.

Jacob staggered, minding everything but where he put his feet, trying to imagine how anyone could have fit a grassy meadow into a suitcase, let alone an entire _hemisphere_. There was blue sky, darkened hills, better grass than he'd seen in Central Park, carpets of exotic flowers, desert pillars, mossy crags, floating _water_ of all things, and all throughout the territories, beasts with horns, tentacles, fur, pincers, scales, spikes, beaks, feathers, and more variable attributes than Jacob had seen in the zoo. He moved slowly, dragging his feet, holding the bucket close when the earth pounded and a squid-headed, hungry looking mammoth galloped towards him.

"Uh… is this thing safe?" Jacob looked for the monkey and gabbled mutely when it waved and disappeared. "Wait – what am I – oh, no….."

He cringed, waiting for the awful crunch, and shuddered when something slithered around his hands. Daring to peek, coughing at the stench of something wild and very cattle-like, he coughed a relieved laugh and upended the bucket. Chunks of meat slithered onto the ground. The beast raised its head momentarily, flicked a tentacle across Jacob's cheek, and shifted back to make room for a smaller member of its species.

"I guess I'm… feeding the animals," Jacob said. He breathed out slowly and shook the tension out of his shoulders. "Okay. I can do this. Uh… hey! Monkey! What am I supposed to do now?"

His guide reappeared, this time offering a bucket of glowing pink worms that vaguely resembled shrimp. Bubble-encased alien fish were fed next. A sack of cockroaches was upended over a nest of arm-length blue snakes. (Jacob was glad to note that not one of them was a twelve-foot serpent – he hoped that particular one had shrunk to accommodate the rest of its family.) Three giant raccoons – furry tail and all – were tossed to a family of porcupine-quilled lions. Jacob thought it was kind of morbid, feeding creatures to creatures, but then every animal had to eat after all, and he wasn't against roasting a good duck when he could afford it.

A herd of long-necked sheep dined on floating pebbles, which the silver monkey tended to personally. Jacob thought that was kinda unfair, since that left him to the eagle-headed lion which flayed whole sheep like a professional butcher.

There was yellow moss for the walking-sticks (Jacob pocketed some for the critter upstairs), shellfish for the glowing squid, eighteen ferrets for the eagle-headed horse (and Jacob swore the silver monkey was laughing when the creature almost mistook his shoe for a forgotten weasel), mulch for the trees where flaming butterflies took roost, and a tin of grey matter for a cocoon-like nightmare that unfurled into a screaming, blue-winged, miniature dragon.

Jacob wished he knew all their names.

He paused some distance past the scowling, four-winged hawk that the monkey wouldn't let him approach. Tilting his head into the breeze, he caught a sharp and icy tinge, like a winter draft slithering through a cracked windowpane.

One of the habitat frames fluttered.

Edging forward, Jacob brushed a hand against the fabric, pulling it back just far enough to step inside. Snow crunched under his shoes, nipping his ankles and plunging him into a sense of _cold, alone, alone, angry, alone, fear, pain, hurt, angry, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone…._

He saw coils of black ink stretch against a barrier of soundless isolation, prodding the edges, lashing out against a cage. Mourning leaked from it, tethering around him, drawing him to the bubble of despondency that trapped _something_ amidst all the other contented beasts.

"Hey," Jacob whispered. "What'd they pen you up for?" He reached out, about to brush the barrier with his fingers, when a silver hand snatched his arm back. Blue eyes glowed as the monkey shook its head.

"What's it doing here?" Jacob asked. "Ain't we supposed to feed it?"

Again the monkey shook its head, pulling him away. For the first time it looked scared of one of its fellow creatures. Shivering, Jacob followed the monkey into waning sunlight, hugging his arms as the chill and emptiness followed him. The baby tentacle-faced creature nudged his leg, yipped, and scurried back to its parents like a thrill-seeking teenager.

Pausing beside a coin-lined grotto, the silver monkey dipped its head and motioned for Jacob to pause. It held out a bowl, pointing to something that looked like a thick biscuit soaked in cream, and laid it in the doorway, shoulders drawing close like a fretful hen.

"Something's missing?" Jacob wondered. "Lemme guess; small, black, duck-billed, tends to pick people's pockets?"

The monkey laid a hand on his knee, and Jacob twitched a smile he didn't feel inside. "I'm sure he'll show up."

Golden eyes rounded into blue, and the monkey beckoned him towards the shack. Sunny grottos were flaring orange with sunset as they slipped inside. Jacob dragged a hand through his hair.

"How does the Brit feed all these animals day after day?" he wondered. "Where does he get the money?" Maybe wizards could create food as needed. Or maybe that's why Claude looked half-starved; wearing himself out tending a bunch of carnivorous critters and forgetting that _real people_ occasionally sat down for breakfast.

The silver monkey regarded him hopefully, as though sensing he was something of a friend, and hopped onto the workbench. It pawed through the drawers, carefully discarding one vial after another, and finally selected a brown bottle with a cork stopper. Hesitantly Jacob took the offered phial.

"Skele-Grow? What is that?"

Blue was swept away with gold and the monkey nodded, pointing to the staircase. Jacob inspected the vial again.

"Am I supposed to give this to him? What – what's the dosage?"

The monkey continued to jab at the suitcase entrance. Flapping his hands exasperatedly, Jacob sighed. "Fine. Don't know why I'm doing this. Talking to a monkey….."

He tucked the vial into his pocket and ascended the stairs, listening to the contented lows of animals falling asleep. So the monkey must be some sort of matron for them all, taking care of them when Claude was away. Must've been a tough job for one critter. No wonder it had been so eager for Jacob's help.

Pushing up the suitcase lid, Jacob squeezed out and carefully locked the case behind him. The room was dark and rank with sick and urine. He moaned, already knowing what he would find.

"Can't leave you alone for five minutes," Jacob chastened as he knelt to cup a hand over the Brit's forehead. The fever was back, wracking chilled, bruised limbs despite the robe that Jacob had surrendered for a semblance of covering. Claude had managed to haul himself halfway across the room before illness wiped him of strength and he'd lain shivering for who knows how long. Given the dried tracks on his cheeks, it'd probably been hours.

"Sorry," Jacob said feebly as he stripped the bed and laid out fresh sheets. "I didn't think it'd take that long."

Bill was right - he'd make a terrible nurse. Nothing else to be done, though. He'd clean the Brit off and make him eat something - that in itself would be more than he'd managed in the last two days. A body couldn't heal without food.

After laying a bowl of water and a clean cloth on the bedside table, he crouched and gently shook Claude's shoulder.

"Hey. Hey, c'mon. I'm gonna get you cleaned up. You gotta eat something, then you can rest, all right?"

A blurred murmur, and the slit of green focused. Jacob's smile felt less forced. "Come on. It's been a long day, and you need sleep more than I do."

Mumbling past chipmunk-swollen cheeks, Claude reached for the suitcase. This time Jacob dragged it closer, resting the wizard's hand on scuffed leather.

"It's all right. I fed'em, okay? They're all here."

Wonder claimed the verges of fright in that filmy hazel thread.

Jacob nodded encouragingly. "It's not running away. I'll take care of 'em. Just promise you'll stay put and try to heal? 'Cause Bill's gonna hate it if he has to reset a bone tomorrow morning."

Caution sluiced into belief in one slow blink. For the first time Claude relaxed, shutting down his only source of communication.

Gingerly Jacob lifted him. Something squirmed and he jumped, surprised to disturb a wriggling clump of black fur. Irritably a certain black critter squirmed out from under Claude's elbow.

"So that's where the lil' guy went," Jacob mused.

Beady eyes watched him, stunned, before the mole snarled and lunged for the bed, slipping underneath with a furious chatter. Jacob didn't bother pursuing. Returning Claude to the bed, he retrieved the suitcase and set it by the nightstand.

"Okay," Jacob said, easing away. "Stay awake for a sec', you got that? I'm gonna get something for you to eat. And you gotta eat, you hear me? Doesn't have to be much, just…."

He didn't waste any more time with words. Running to the kitchen, Jacob snatched a jar of beef jelly that Bill had left in the icebox and slopped a wooden spoonful into a pan, diluting it to a thin broth before setting it on the burner. He let it warm, finishing the unpleasant task of cleaning the mess in the bedroom, glad that Claude had momentarily slipped under again. There had to be a way to feed the creatures and make sure that Claude wasn't left alone again. Someone in New York had to be trustworthy enough to babysit a nincompoop wizard while Jacob….

Huffing, Jacob wondered why he didn't think of it before. "Bill," he muttered. "Of course. Ol' Bill. Boy, is he gonna be in for a surprise….."


	7. The Darkest Forces

Something or other had filched his watch (Jacob blamed the rat-mole), but he estimated he'd gotten at least three hours of sleep before a twiggy incisor jabbed his ear. Brushing it aside with a mumble, Jacob started to nod off again, and came awake with a snort as a tiny, high-pitched voice wailed in his ear.

"What the – !"

Cheekily the walking-stick crawled down his arm. It leaned forward with as irate an expression as a plant could manage, gesturing with furious strokes.

"I don't get it," Jacob complained, rubbing his eyes and wishing his head didn't feel so clouded. "Didn't I feed you enough? Did something get out of the suitcase? What…..?"

Comprehension finally clued in. Yawning around the back of his hand, he turned to face Claude. Instantly he wished he'd been woken sooner.

Huffing sounds broke from Claude's sleeve, where chipped teeth were clamped onto an already bruised wrist. His left leg shifted back and forth and back again, swinging to the side, curling in, jostling out, failing to relieve any discomfort. Both eyes were open, moist and anguished, squeezing shut as a smothered yelp eeked past woolen fabric.

"I got this," Jacob whispered to the plant, nodding his thanks.

His knees creaked as he hoisted himself out of the chair, and his neck felt permanently soldered at an angle. He rubbed the stiff muscles with a grimace, reaching for the morphine bottle. It felt disturbingly light.

"Can't have gone through that much," Jacob whispered. But he knew it was possible. He still couldn't find a single spoon in the house. Bill would have a hissing fit when he measured it tomorrow morning, but Claude was going to bite through his wrist if he was forced through another hour without help.

Rationalizing the need for a higher dose, Jacob swished the bottle experimentally. His eyes landed on the carpet stains where Claude's leg wound had breached the dressings. Eyes widening in memory, Jacob tossed the bottle back onto the dresser and dove for the floor. He squinted underneath the bed, aware that Claude probably thought he was acting like a freak, and grinned when he saw a cluttered heap of scrap metal.

"Gotcha."

The bed creaked as Claude shifted fretfully. Wriggling underneath, Jacob reached out and nabbed a spoon. Immediately two black paws flicked out to retrieve it. Frazzled chittering spilled from the nest.

"Aw, come on!" Jacob protested. "Just give me one spoon. You can keep the rest." Anything to get this mangy muskrat out of Claude's medicines.

The mole swiveled around to grip the spoon with its back claws, shoveling silverware into its pouch with all its mighty speed. It wasn't much. Rolling his eyes, Jacob clambered out and to his feet, dragging the mole with him. He blew cobwebs out of his eyes and glared.

"You serious?"

The creature stared at him, a stethoscope swinging out from its pouch like an offbeat clock. Jacob grabbed for the medical piece.

"Come on, give it," he growled, prying tiny claws off one by one. The critter responded with a hail of heinous sounds that might have been duck-mole curses. Wrangling the stethoscope free, Jacob swung it away with a triumphant, "Hah!"

A blustering snort startled him and he remembered that there was another guy in the room. Distracted from his pain, Claude watched with dimly perked amusement. Jacob faltered, half surprised the Brit could see anything as funny when he was half bedeviled with pain, half comprehensive that those really were impressive black eyes. Bill would have a story to compare with the army days, back when Corporal Jeffrey walked straight into a ….

But he was the one distracted now.

Rolling the mole-rat off his wrist (it really wanted the stethoscope back), Jacob thrust the medical tool into a drawer and wiped the spoon on his sleeve before doling out a careful measurement of morphine.

 _"Just a bit if'n you don't want him sleeping,"_ Bill had cautioned. _"He's gotta eat at some point, Jake."_

Well, this wasn't even a mouthful, so it shouldn't be too hard to compel the Brit to swallow a little more broth. He'd drunk maybe half a cup the night before. The leg wound was still secreting pus, and personal needs were tended on a regular basis. He _had_ to be thirsty.

The morphine was taken without a fuss. Jacob dashed to the kitchen, muttering to himself about tea and soaked bread, and what was it that Bill had mentioned when Claude could stomach solid foods again? He waved off the thought, reheated the pan, and raced back with a mug of lukewarm broth just in time to rescue Bill's stethoscope from an adamant pesky pilferer.

"I can't keep anything out of your paws," Jacob censured, winding the stethoscope around his neck. The beast snarled.

"Obsessive little guy, isn't he?" Jacob commented as he moved his chair next to the bed. Like the night before, he crooked his arm under Claude's shoulders, lifting him despite the clenching of the wizard's shoulders, pretending it was just tension and he wasn't causing him any more pain as he coaxed him to take one swallow, just a bit more, it wouldn't make him sick 'cause this was the good stuff, Bill always found friends among the honest farmers, and just like the night before, while Claude spluttered and tried to swallow and Jacob ignored the dribbles soaking his sleeve, the mug slowly emptied and he was certain there was a chance the Brit would make it after all.

This time Claude managed a full three-quarters before his stomach heaved and he clamped his mouth shut, begging for no more. Jacob nestled him back into the blankets and reached for the bedpan.

It wasn't the first time he had to do it, but Claude still looked away, blinking helplessly, and Jacob told himself it was just one of Bill's patients. Just a kid in the outfit when there was no one else was there to help. Jacob reminded himself that this was still more dignifying for both of them than blotting the mattress.

He didn't blame Claude for just wanting to sleep afterwards. Jacob washed his hands and grabbed a small bowl, half-asleep himself. He wondered about the hiss in the room, hoping it wasn't another serpent, and then realized cold water was still streaming into a cluttered sink. Shutting off the faucet, he leaned over the counter and stared at the chipped bowl.

"Milk," he said numbly. Stumbling, he pulled out one of his stale pastries and dropped it into the dish, snorting when crumbs sprayed everywhere. "No one's buying _that_ paczki."

He located the milk without landing on his face. Dolling it liberally over the pastry, Jacob set down the half-full bottle with a chef's flourish and lurched back to the bedroom.

"Here ya go, li'l thief," he stated, nudging the bowl under the bedframe. A muted, forgotten corner of his dignity told him he'd be crazy by morning if he didn't sleep.

Retreating to the chair and resting his head against his hand, he allowed his eyes to rove, tracking the room as it stretched in roils of carpet and suitcase and dresser. Smackering under the bed told him that his offering had been appreciated. Jacob wanted to cheer – it wasn't every day that someone lapped up his cooking – but his mouth wouldn't follow through.

He woke up late the next morning with his head digging into the nightstand and his fingers clenched around Bill's stethoscope.

"Jake. Jaaay-cob. C'mon, lazy cob, I need you t'hold the kid. Brave, stupid lout."

Bill had returned, and well in time. Claude's fever had spiked.

"It's gonna be a leg soon," Bill said regretfully. He'd slashed the wound, drained it of rusty seepage, and bound a mixture of herbs and powdered silver to the enflamed gash. "Jacob, don't stop me next time. I won't lose him 'cause you care too much."

"Is there _nothing_ else you can do?" Jacob begged.

Bill shook his head. "Short of a miracle, he's outta time."

Jacob's attention slid to the suitcase. "You want a miracle?"

The doctor sighed. "Now you're tellin' me he's a doctor an' has a cur'all remedy stowed in his trunk." He deliberately coiled his stethoscope and dropped it into his bag. "All right, where'd you put my knife, Jacob?"

Eyes flaring, Jacob swiveled to face the bed - more specifically, the snatcher hiding underneath. "Aw, you gotta be kidding –"

"I'm jokin' – it's a joke!" Bill deadpanned. He rolled down the sleeves of his permanently wrinkled coat. "Don't mind me, Jake. Bin a long night."

"Yeah, I know," Jacob commiserated.

"No, you don't, not till you got three kids with pneumonia, melancholia, an' monophobia, all screamin' your bloody name!" Bill's eyes lit up, raw and desperate, and for a moment Jacob thought he would pitch his bag across the room. Almost immediately Bill deflated, raising a shivering hand to his head.

"I can't save 'em all, Jacob. I try…. Every time you'd think it'd be easier, but…. I can't save everyone. You still believe in me, don't you?"

"Course I do," Jacob whispered. "Look, Bill, get some rest. You've done what you can. Just put your bag up – ignore the phone. New York can survive a few hours on its own."

Bill spluttered, laughed, gnawed a fingernail that was already stripped to the flesh. He patted Jacob's shoulder, gripping tight for one moment. "Thanks, Jake, but there's some'uns in New York that'll never be reached less'n they call on me. I can name one darlin' girl who won't be breathin' tomorrow morn if I leave her now."

"You left her for….?" Jacob's gut clenched, and Bill squeezed his shoulder twice.

"It ain't your fault, Jake. He'd be dead if not for me, I know. Stop frettin' an' keep him alive until I get back. I'll try to keep his leg."

"Bill…!" Jacob began.

The doctor held up his hand. "Three hours sleep an' I'll be dandy as a flock'o pigeons. Tomorrow, Jacob. I'll see myself out."

Left without a choice, Jacob shut the door behind him. He stood with his head against the frame, trying to imagine Bill's practice, day in and day out.

Life just wasn't fair.

After the door closed, Jacob sank into his chair. He tried to remember actually _sleeping_ in his own bed instead of keeping a crazy knucklehead from jumping out of it. He'd never liked the monotony of the factory, always felt like he was being crushed into a lifeless heap of scrapped can, but at least there'd been predictability there. Fewer people actually died in his line of work.

"What kinda guy am I?" Jacob wondered aloud. Claude was insensible – Bill had staunchly refused to give him a higher dose of morphine and the poor kid had finally taken the easy way out – but it was easier to pretend someone was listening. "I mean, I finally get the chance to do something important and I wish I was just an ordinary bloke again. Who does that?"

Jacob looked down at the sweat-plastered curls and shook his head. "And here you are, still fighting. Maybe someday you can tell me what makes you so brave."

He heard the door creak behind him. _Someone let the mole out,_ was his first thought.

 _I know I shut that,_ was his second.

Glancing up, Jacob lunged from the chair. "Who are you?"

A hand was raised in calm assurance. Peacefulness settled across Jacob's shoulders, blanketing his frantic thoughts. His heart stopped palpitating and the clamminess left his palms. Breathing easier, he stepped aside, too relaxed to wonder how the intruder… _visitor_ … had found his apartment.

"It's quite all right, Mister Kowalski," the man said, draping his coat over Claude's suitcase. "Your doctor friend told me all about you. I'm here to help."

"You're… you're a…." Peering at the silver-handled wand, Jacob finally managed the question. "You're magical, too?"

Dark eyebrows lifted. "Ah. You understand, then."

The man brushed his shoulder and Jacob moved out of the way. Thank goodness, it was another wizard. He could help where Jacob was failing. He would know how to incant spells or brew potions or do other magical things to save Claude.

"Of course I'll do the best I can," the wizard said compassionately as he took Jacob's chair. Gently he raised Claude's bruised eyelids, inspected the splinted wrist, hovered his fingers over the torn leg. He frowned and retreated to the infection, casting aside the bandages with a sweep of his wand. The stench roiled in a leakage of blood and tinted fluid.

"Well, that's hardly advantageous, is it?" the wizard commented. He pressed his fingertips to the wound, closing his eyes, and Jacob gawked as the red flare centered, then pushed outwards in a cascade of clear fluid, until the split flesh scabbed over, and the scab itself knotted into a silver scar. Claude's eyes flashed open.

"You won't forget that mark," the wizard murmured. "Everything they've done to our kind…."

He paused, looking over his shoulder as though he had forgotten Jacob's presence. "Would you mind fetching me a cup of coffee? It shouldn't be too much trouble."

"No, no trouble at all," Jacob agreed. He nodded reassuringly at Claude, trusting that this wizard would take care of him. He'd just be gone for a few minutes.

"So tell me," the wizard murmured, softer, "Why would Theseus send _you_ to America?"

Jacob's neck crawled. Immediately the feeling passed in a wave of comfortable apathy, and he gripped the doorknob with confidence. Everything was just fine. Now that the wizard was here, he finally didn't have to worry about what would happen if he left Claude by himself.

He was just about to step past the door when something furry and sharp-clawed jumped onto his ankle. Flummoxed, Jacob stared at the beady-eyed monster and shook his foot. "Shoo."

"What's that?" the wizard looked over his shoulder, saw the fuzzy pest, and sighed, flicking his wand. "I'll take care of it."

In that moment Jacob saw two startling images. The mole cowering as it huddled against his leg, and Claude's jilted eyes. The young wizard rolled, springing the older man's attention, and Jacob snapped out his lethargic barrier.

He suddenly felt exposed and horribly in the wrong.

Claude screamed as he fell onto his broken wrist. The dark-haired wizard bolted to his feet, wand swishing, and the outcry clamped into a dull whimper. He raised his hand and Claude jerked back, jaw clenched as though sealed, awful noises tearing from his raw throat.

"I don't really need you alive," the taller wizard speculated. "It just makes things _easier_." He pressed his wand to Claude's temple and twisted, wrenching out a single thread of blue.

Jacob bolted. He didn't have a wand. He didn't know anything about magic. But he knew how much it hurt to have a bottle smashed over his head. He dove for the dresser, grabbing the quarter-full bottle of morphine, and as the furry mole detached itself, tripping up the wizard when he raised his wand to a vial, Jacob gave him a face full of crunching glass.

Dark eyes widened and dulled instantly, and the wizard collapsed at his feet. The blue thread wriggled and dissolved.

"Oh… oh, I'm sorry," Jacob said frantically, staring at the jagged bottleneck in his hands. "I'm really, really sorry, man, I didn't…."

Rationality reasserted itself. Shaking his head, Jacob stepped over the unconscious wizard and hauled Claude into his arms. "Come on, we're getting out of here."

Claude tried to mumble, blood streaking down his chin. "…. _mperio_ ….."

"Yeah, yeah – talk to me about it later." Jacob swung his head for the mole to follow, flipped the suitcase latches with his foot, and practically ran down the steps. He searched for the silver monkey, ignored the growls from outside, and tramped over to the far wall, depositing Claude into the heap of blankets and puffy feathers that vaguely resembled a cluttered nest.

"Be right back," Jacob gasped, holding up one finger and running back up the stairs. He searched the room briefly, held out his hand for the walking-stick, and snatched up the blue coat and the silver-tipped wand. Scurrying back down, gasping from the exertion, he laid both at Claude's side.

"Gotta get us out of here," Jacob said in a rush. "I'll come down when it's safe, okay?"

Green eyes searched him, anxious and trusting, and Claude gave a tiny nod. Jacob spread the coat over him and detangled the plant from his own shoulder, depositing it on a shelf. In thirty seconds he was up the stairs, running from his own apartment with a battered suitcase and his last handful of cash.

To his good fortune, the cabbie ran cheap. He made it to Central Park with five bucks left and enough coins in his pocket to make a phone call.


	8. Belonging

"Jac – Jacob, wait – Jacob – _Jacob_ – _Jacob!_ – _Kowalski_ , shut your confriscating mouth an' lemme git a word in!"

"Just let me come to your place!" Jacob shouted into the mouthpiece, waving to the cabbie to give him more time. "I'll explain there!"

"Would you just shuddup and breathe, Kowalski!" Oppressed breathing hinted that Bill had a hand clapped over his face again. "Just…. Tell me you didn't leave the kid behind. So help me, Jacob, if you ran off an' left him floppin' I'll flag you down as a witness to the bank mob myself."

"He's the reason I'm calling, Bill!" Looking over his shoulder for black-robed wizards, Jacob switched the phone to his other ear. "We need a safe place. Someone's trying to hunt him down."

"Who would look for a forig-ner in _your_ apartment?"

"Bill – "

"I mean, it's not like there's anythin' worthwhile 'bout your place, rum-down pile of trash like the rest of the neighborhood..."

"Gee, thanks, Bill," Jacob said tartly.

"Jist sayin' it's the last place anyone would look for a posh and pommeled Brit," Bill said frankly. "So who's the threat? Don' tell me they let Mary Lou tramp all over th'place."

"I… can't tell you now," Jacob said. "Bill, just let me bring him to your house. I promise I'll tell you everything as soon as we get there."

Bill released a gravely sigh. "An' you used t'be the predictable, monotonous sort'o bloke. You shouldn't of moved him, Jake. I don't know what I'll be stitching up now." A heavy pause was punctuated with the swish of coffee being poured. Finally Bill said, "I'll leave the door unlocked."

"Thank you," Jacob gasped. "I'll pay you back – whatever it takes."

"Stop dallying and bring the kid over," Bill carped. "Darnit, Jake, you couldn't have picked a worse time t'move him. Jist… jist…."

A solid _click_ implied what Bill couldn't express in words alone. Heavy-hearted, Jacob hung up the phone.

"I know, Bill," he murmured, pocketing the change. "I'm sorry. I just…."

The silence twisted his gut until he wished he really was ill. Fever and chills would be easier than the guilt clamming up his hands. Seizing the case handle, Jacob marched back to the cab, closing the door behind him with a solid _kathunk_.

"Extra charge for the waiting," the bored cabbie told him.

Nodding curtly, Jacob leaned back and let his head jounce with the cab's swerves.

Losing Mildred had been hard. The terse refusal from the factory, terminating his job, had left him floundering.

If he lost Bill on top of everything else….

He just hoped Claude wouldn't move on and forget him after all of this was over. It'd just be one more clout to trump the rest.

One more confirmation that his life meant _nothing_.

* * *

"Jake!" Bill seized his flagging shoulders as soon as he saw him. "Jake, y'didn't leave him!"

Shaking his head, Jacob held up the suitcase. "Course not, Bill. I got him. Safe an' snug."

Alarm slanted into disturbed suspicion, which froze into cold fear. "Jake… come inside… now."

"I'm all right," Jacob said as Bill led him inside and shut the door. "I'm not crazy."

"No, you're only ravin' like a zaned loon," Bill said. He dragged Jacob over to a chair and pushed him down, striding out of the room and returning to thrust a mug of lukewarm coffee into his hands. "Drink, Jacob. Doctor's orders."

"I'm fine," Jacob said, clanking the mug on the book table. "You've got to see to Claude. I don't know what that wizard did to him."

"Wizard?" Bill's eyes narrowed. "Jake, have you gone blarmey?" His voice quavered as he bent over Jacob's chair. "Jake… Jake, where's the kid?" His eyes fell to the suitcase. "Don't tell me… not in pieces, no, you wouldn't…."

"No, it's not like that!" Jacob exclaimed, half-incented to laugh at the absurdity, and half dizzied at the horrific thought. "It's…." He trailed off, inadequate to explain. "Bill, you have to see this for yourself."

"I don't think I want to," Bill said in a shuddering whisper. He braced his left foot, like someone preparing to flee the room.

Someone who would usher the uniforms inside and hand over his friend.

Jacob gathered his courage, his fortitude, and his last hope. "Please, Bill… trust me just this once."

He set the case down, ignoring the clenching of Bill's hands, and flicked the latches. Praying nothing would spring out unfettered, he crouched between the case and the doctor and guardedly raised the lid. Cold air blasted him from the passage below.

"Sainted fire and hail," Bill swore.

"You coming?" Jacob said dully. He stepped inside, anticipating that Bill would follow. For several crucial moments his footsteps were the only rattle of sound.

There was a quick breath, a vehement oath, and the clatter of someone in a hurry.

"Blasted mollycoddled privates!" Bill snarled from above. "Where'd I leave my bag?"

Seconds later, thin-leathered shoes thumped down the steps. Bill swung into the shack, breathing raggedly, and fumbled on his glasses. Grey eyes glazed over as he took in the ransacked shelves littered with bottles and fantastic illustrations, barrels of organisms for which science had no explanation, the dragon skull on the top shelf, the monkey beginning to materialize, and finally the mop-headed British wizard curled against the wall, buried to the nose in feathers and a blue coat.

"Jake, you weren't….." Bill jumped at a loud squawk, clutching his doctor's bag. "Am I messed up in th'head? This ain't real, issit?"

"You can call it a dream all you want," Jacob assured, leading him to the cot. "But you can still fix him up, can't you?"

Taking in the bruised features and casted limbs of a familiar patient, Bill flung his bag onto a chair and rolled up his sleeves. "Right-O. What attacked him this time?"

* * *

Bill took to the magical world like he did all alarming and unpleasant scenarios – he shoved it out of his mind and kept up a running dialogue with the nearest intelligible subject.

"No, I'm not givin' him that," he told the silver monkey as another vial was pushed insistently into his hands. "I'm a doctor, not an apothecary, and I say there ain't sich thing as witchcraft – an if there be, then I ain't havin' no part of it."

He didn't even mention the leg wound to Jacob. After studying it for a good three minutes, then muttering about a wicked scar that could've healed better if he'd had a say in it, he busied himself with re-splinting Claude's abused wrist.

Jacob wasn't surprised that the Brit woke this time, finally cured of the source of fever. Startling, Claude jolted away from Bill, reaching for his pocket and then freezing, slight tremors confirming what his eyes could not hide.

"Whoah, it's okay," Jacob said, quickly stepping up alongside the doctor. "This is my friend Bill. He's the reason you're alive. He's a friend, I promise. Bill, monkey, monkey, Bill," he introduced needlessly. "See, nobody here's afraid of him. You can trust the monkey, right?"

Claude's eyes blinked in a half-roll and he garbled something like "Meegize," and Bill took that as his cue to attack.

"All right, now seeing as you're conscious and aware, I'm going to – _move_ , Kowalski. There ain't enough room here for you _and_ the ape."

Backing out of the cramped space, Jacob waved over the back of Bill's head and hoped that Claude would believe him. Bill was a hard guy to be nervous around once he started talking.

"So you're the reason I'm half-mad," Bill told Claude. "No, don't answer me, I like patients better when they can't share thar opinions. This is all Kowalski's delusions creepin' into my nightmares. I'll wake up from this an' be glad I've an ordinary, unsocialized life, without a single dog or cat t'call my own. Now, about that name – what'chu call yourself? … Now see here, that's what we call salamanders round these parts. I meant _your_ name. … Oh blarmey, Jake, they really did brain this poor wretch."

Jacob chuckled, only half-listening, and found a bucket of slabbed meat that was miraculously fresh despite the absence of an icebox. Mentally tallying off a list of animals that needed to be fed, he stepped out into sunshine the likes he never found in Central Park. The beasts trailed towards him, lowing in recognition, and he felt strangely content. Like he was doing something important after all.

Of course, life had to shift priorities as soon as Jacob thought he was getting in on something. Soon as the porcupine-lion got a sniff of the shack – and more specifically _who_ was inside – every critter in Claude's trunk skirted the feed bags and tried to squeeze inside. The congregation of baying mammals crowding into one doorway gave Jacob a greater sympathy for Noah when he tried to fit 'em all into one boat. (How'd he settle the growing snake problems, Jacob wondered? There had to be ancient notes somewhere on mastering mystical beasts. Maybe those were the dragons in…..)

 _"Kowalski!"_ Bill's angry holler had been mastered amidst bomber planes and crumbling buildings. When he shouted, generals stood at attention. Jacob's knees might have quaked just a bit as the doctor bellowed, "Git your imaginary zoo outta my sickroom!"

"What am I supposed to do?" Jacob yelled over the back of a massive, ornery, conspicuously horned hippo.

"They're your – _git off, you bloomin' gnat_ – they're your fantastic beasts! Git them out or I'll have you court-martialed next time some colonel starts screamin' in my bloody nightmares!"

"Okay, everybody move," Jacob said tentatively, reaching out three times before tentatively patting the hippo's flank. "Uh… Food? This way – you gotta get out of the shack before you get it. … _Aw, come on!_ "

He skittered back as a large foot almost minced his shoe.

 _"Jacob, you useless polliwog!"_

"I'm not a pied piper!" Jacob retorted.

"They're your delusions!"

" _He_ brought them!"

"Kowalski! I need elbow space _now!_ "

But it wasn't Jacob's coaxing that nudged aside the carnivores in the end, nor Bill's wrathful threats. Slowly, grudgingly, the beasts retreated from the door, voicing their protest in a crescendo of unhappy roars, yips, and slithers as the yellow-eyed monkey ushered them back. Jacob dropped the feed bucket and stared.

"Well, I'll be – "

"Finally! Kowalski, git in here an' lend me a hand! And you! Shoo, you thievin' lil' apparition! Monkey, impound your offspring afore I plaster its bloody beak shut!"

Jacob was waylaid at the door by a fuming doctor who had successfully threatened _and_ endeared a pickpocketing mole. The beast lay on its back in the crook of Bill's arm, calm as a pampered kitten, batting at the stethoscope dangling from Bill's fingers. Glowering with the promise of animal homicide, Bill shoved both creature and toy into Jacob's hands.

"Remove it from the premises."

"Uh…. It lives here," Jacob mumbled as Bill reentered the hutch.

"I don't care if it lives in Antarctica, Kowalski! It does _not_ enter the sickroom!"

Jacob shrugged at the mole. "Bill doesn't like it when people crowd him."

The duck-mole took one look at his face and stuffed the stethoscope into its pouch.

"Fine. But he gave it to you this time." Holding the mole securely in one hand, Jacob retrieved the bucket and set out to feed Claude's creatures.

He paused lastly outside the winter scene, wondering what to feed a patch of darkness. Once the duck-mole tried huddling into his sleeve, Jacob knew he'd treaded far enough. He left the tarp flapping and returned to the shack. Claude would know what to feed it, and if he wasn't up to talking, the silver monkey obviously knew his job.

Jacob just wished he knew what to call these funny critters. He watched the tentacled-faced predators, wondering if Adam considered his job a privilege, or if he eventually ran out of names.

Well, Jacob didn't have the brains to label a suitcase full of animals, let alone an entire world, but he knew a few army pals who vaguely resembled some of Claude's monsters.

Not that he'd ever say it aloud.

"Guess we'll start with you," Jacob said to a disgruntled looking duck-mole. He twitched its hind leg, thinking _cute_ , and sniggered when the creature slapped him with its forepaw.

"So I knew this guy – a real badger, all gruff and cranky, especially in the early morning – anyways, he owned a watch shop. Name was Nickolas Percy Cooper. Everybody just called him 'Lazy Cog', 'cause every morning he'd wind up this beat-up silver watch and heckle the bugler for shoving us out so early. Turned into quite a row between them, till one day he stole the guy's bugle….."

'Cog' was a peculiar name for a pet, but Jacob thought it was fitting for a scheming bandit whose innards were jammed with pieces of odd metal. Especially when said bandit snarled at him halfway through the story and scuttled into a den guarded by biscuit and sour milk, where the plinking of coins and clutter indicated that there was more tucked into that pouch than befit one tiny mammal.

"Fine." Jacob blew upwards, denouncing the furry termite. "Somebody doesn't like old war stories."

All monsters fed and settled in their respective habitats, he trudged back to the shack, where he hoped that Bill would be finishing his administrations, Claude might have a few legible words to offer, and a slightly-less uncomfortable chair would be serviceable for a late afternoon nap.

Jacob was starting to worry that the next time he closed his burning eyes, they'd be glued shut permanently.

* * *

"We're not discussing it."

"Bill, I had no choice – "

"You know how many parents flipped me tha' same excuse? There's always a choice, Jake."

"Would you just listen?" Jacob pleaded. "Please, you _know_ I'm not crazy."

Bill paused, coat flung over his arm, one foot resting on the bottom stair. "I'm a mite bit afraid for myself," he admitted. He waved around, wordlessly summarizing the shack, the sunny terrain, the winged beasts, the silver monkey knitting beside Claude's bed. "Jake… tell me it ain't real. Tell me I'm delusionary. Tha' I've finally gone mad and they'll be haulin' me off tomorrow."

Chuckling, Jacob touched the doctor's shoulder. "Bill, neither of us've got that kind of imagination." His tentative smile faded as Bill shrugged him away.

"I know that," Bill murmured. "I knew it all th'while. S'just…. There's kids out there, Jake. Hundreds of'em starvin', one on my watch burnin' with pneumonia, and here there's a trove of magic that I know would perk 'em all up in a jiffy. And I wonder… why haven't we doctors ever been told?" Honest grey eyes searched Jacob. "Why would they keep this from us?"

"I guess…." Jacob tried to mimic Bill's compassion, but all he could see was a kid on the street getting beaten to death. "I guess people don't _want_ any of this magic stuff. I mean, New York seems to think he's a pretty big threat." He scoffed, gripping his arm, wondering how anyone could see Claude as a menacing, evil wizard.

"You wonder why," Bill said pointedly. Jacob glanced up, surprised, and the doctor shook his head. "Don't mind me, Jake. But magic's never cured any'o my patients. Seems if the magickers wanna keep all this to themselves, then it's their own doing, all this mistrust. I'll take no side in it."

"But you'll still help him, won't you?" Jacob exclaimed, lunging up the steps as Bill opened the case. "Bill, you're a doctor! You've never turned down a – "

"I never said I wouldn't _be here_ if'n you needed me," Bill stated, neither jesting nor cold in his response. "You're welcome here as long as you're on th'lam. He's got it handled, though. 'Nough potions in there t'cure any one of those beasties, I'll wager." Stepping out and waiting for Jacob to follow, Bill smiled, a cheerless tug at the mouth. "Jake. I'm a _doctor_ , not a nursemaid. Lemme tend to my patients. He'll be fine."

"But…."

Without pausing for Jacob to defend his cause, Bill tugged on his coat and meandered to the door. "I'll be back late. Should be somethin' in the kitchen you can both eat. Leave the marmalade – might be rancid jelly, not quite sure. Don't touch the pickled eggs."

"Bill," Jacob called, a string of an apologies bursting in his chest.

The door clicked shut.

Jacob stood in the middle of Bill's living room, amidst the bare furniture and yellowing walls that had once been a charming mansion, before Bill's occupation took him overseas and then into the rot of New York's forgotten backstreets. Here was a man who had given everything he had for people who could never repay him.

While the guy in the suitcase had the remedies that could have cured them all.

"Magic shouldn't be kept secret like that," Jacob mulled aloud, as he remembered how Claude's infection had vanished by the other wizard simply _touching_ it.

And yet there was a darker side to Claude's world: like the witches dancing around a ring of flames; like the unexplained earthquakes caving parts of New York; like how _easily_ the other wizard made Jacob think it was okay to leave the room when Claude was in danger.

Like the sorrowful shriek of magic pent inside a cold room – swirling, angry, black.

"I don't think New York is ready for that kind of magic," Jacob said to the closed door.

And he wasn't ready to scold a guileless kid whose first magic show had earned him a broken wrist and a snapped wand.

Clenching his fist, shaking with arguments unsaid, Jacob turned on his heel and marched to Bill's spare room. He clumped down the suitcase steps, shaking loose a hail of drying herbs, and paused in the center of the shack.

He looked outside at the glinting sunlight, at the creatures trotting in their own habitats, untroubled and content, and he knew that this was one more bit of magic that New York would only snuff out. In his world there'd be scientists; zoo keepers; iron bars; senseless gawkers paying to see animals stand idly in containment.

This wizard – selfish "magicker" or not – he seemed to think they were important enough to keep happy. Jacob figured he felt the same way.

"Yeah, who needs magic in America, anyways?" Jacob whispered. He craned his neck and rolled his arms, clapping a fist into an open hand, and turned to face the Brit.

For the first time green eyes were wide-open and lucid. The carpet of bruises was painful-looking as ever, as much as could be seen spreading out from the robe and trousers that Bill had scrounged up, and Claude still hadn't lost the splints, but Jacob was willing to bet his family recipes that for once he would be able to understand what the Brit wanted him to hear.

And now, in the guy's respective habitat (and for a magical oddity with a heroic fondness for lethal animals, it could only be the closest thing he had to home), Jacob figured he'd already fulfilled half his duties. Bill was right – the Brit was gonna be okay.

He was finally where he belonged.


	9. Someone Else's Brother

**Egad, I thought this chapter would never be posted. Working 50 hour weeks and haven't had writing time in over a month. Not cool. :/**

* * *

"Hey," Jacob said softly, pulling up a creaky chair beside the bed. (It was _definitely_ more comfortable than the hardwood, clunky thing in his apartment, despite the wobbles.) He shuffled, unnerved by the Brit's quiet scrutiny, and ventured, "You, uh… feeling better?"

Well, that sounded awkward. "I mean, Bill said he fixed your arm up," Jacob hastily explained. "The break was … um…." _More broken?_ First chance to have a decent one-sided conversation and he couldn't even form a plausible sentence.

"S'fine…."

Jacob almost fell out his chair at the first intelligible word. Curling into a rasping cough, Claude tucked his good arm against his chest and stared at the counter, where dark colored vials were wobbling midair.

"Dougal's been helping…." Claude hacked again, screwing up his face as a fleck of blood tainted the pillow. He ran his tongue over a split tooth and then pushed back the phial that materialized by his head. "N-Not now, Dougal, m'already twisted up inside from everything you shoved at me."

"Dougal?" Jacob wondered, squinting as more bottles clinked midair.

"S'a dameegus," Claude answered. At least it sounded like "dameegus". Could've been "Damascus" for all Jacob could make out. "Stop teasing 'im, Doug'l."

Silver fur ruffled as the yellow-eyed monkey appeared. It smiled at Jacob, cheeky and all-knowing, and pressed a green vial into Claude's hand.

"M'not taking it," the Brit rasped. He flopped his bad wrist, clearly a 'shooing' gesture, and sighed into the pillow.

"Huh. Invisible monkeys. What's next?" Jacob wasn't keen on finding out. The sun was setting and so were his eyelids. He jerked himself awake, shaking his head vigorously, and posed the question that had been bothering him all week. "What are all these animals, anyways? Nothing in America exists like … like that," he said, pointing to the Damascus. "I mean, I've seen lemurs overseas, but lemur don't change eye color and…."

He faltered, realizing he was running an interrogation and he didn't even know the basics about who the Brit was and _why_ someone had bothered tracking him to the apartment.

"Sorry," Jacob blustered. He stuck out a hand, realizing belatedly that the gesture was pointless without two working right arms. "I'm Jacob Kowalski. We're at my friend Bill's house. You met Bill. He's the doctor with a sour attitude and a funny way of showing that he's worried about his patients."

After a moment's pause, Claude nodded. "Nuwd."

"Beg pardon?" Jacob blinked.

The Brit contorted as the act of clearing his throat turned into another string of painful coughs. The Damascus started thrusting bottles towards him again.

"Whoah, it's okay. We don't have to talk about it now." Jacob rushed to stand, looking for a bottle of elderberry syrup or whatever else Bill would have left behind for ailing lungs. He grabbed a steel flask, sniffed the contents, and shuddered at the tangy fumes. Best not to chance it. Bracing his hands haplessly at the monkey, he scanned the room frantically. No doctor's bag or anything that looked relatively safe.

As Claude continued to splutter, Jacob hesitantly approached the bedside and laid a hand between the Brit's shoulders, rubbing deep, even circles like his mamma used to do when he was sick in the winter. The Damascus eyed him warily, blue swirling for a moment, before the gold returned and it settled back like a frustrated parent.

"Easy… just breathe," Jacob murmured, nodding at the monkey. _You can trust me._ "In and out. There's enough air in the room."

Exasperated muscles continued to jump underneath his hand. Jacob brushed several feathers out of the way, glancing around the assortment of bottles one more time. Dougal pressed a padded, five-digit paw against his wrist. Insistently it held out a clear vial.

"Fine, I'll give it to him in a few minutes," Jacob swore, tucking the vial into his trouser pocket. The Damascus watched him reproachfully.

"He can't even swallow right now!" Jacob hissed. Claude choked as though to second that. Sniffing, Dougal turned its head away, and Jacob rolled his eyes.

Eventually the cough settled into ragged breathing. Claude shut his eyes, burying his face into the pillow, until the tension in his shoulders eased and the burgundy shade left his skin.

"All right," Jacob said softly, withdrawing his hand. "No talking for a while. Did Bill leave _anything_ behind?"

"Sc'mner," Claude forced out. "Nudskmnder."

"Don't rush it," Jacob urged. He tucked the blankets around Claude's shoulders and lifted his head gently, turning the pillow over. Snuffling into the cooler fabric, Claude tried mumbling again.

"S'my name. Scmander."

Oh, so _that_ was the salamander reference Bill had mentioned before. Jacob nodded lethargically. "Okay, Mister…. Skmander. We'll talk about it more in the morning."

Agitatedly Claude blew into the pillow. Too lethargic to sort out the Brit's problems, Jacob settled back into the chair and leaned his head against the wall. "Dougal, wake me up if he needs anything – _anything_. I'm just gonna get some shut-eye before Bill gets back."

The Damascus renewed its fussing over Claude as Jacob groggily shut his eyes.

He wasn't used to dreaming much, but this time his sleep was filled with fantastical creatures tramping through New York. Some of them were monsters, smashing through walls, and some of them were outrageous, like the mole that Claude had to chase down in a jewelry store, while some were downright….

Terrifying.

The black vortex screamed down in the last seconds of his dream, and Jacob woke in a cold sweat. He jolted, whacking his head against the wall, and stared into the dark room for long minutes, convincing himself that the writhing evil wouldn't reappear.

It was still dusk in Claude's world when Jacob left the shack, staring at the crack of white where the froth of darkness was penned. He hugged himself, cold and shaken, and retreated to the staircase.

The molding horrors that waited in Bill's icebox would be less traumatic than what lay below. Besides, Jacob was certain that Claude would be hungry the next time he woke.

Before venturing to the kitchen, Jacob peeked into the dusty study and the living room. Both were empty, and the coat rack was undisturbed.

Whatever was keeping Bill for so long, Jacob prayed it wasn't a dead child.

* * *

The icebox was dusty like the rest of the kitchen, worn at the handle, with a note glued to the door dating last week's milk. A hundred shreds of paper testified previous records. Jacob pulled the door ajar, curled his nose at the green powdered, untouched loaf of bread, and tossed it out to retrieve a jar of broth that had Bill's "It's okay brought it home Thursday" tag, and a bottle of buttermilk which – upon smelling – was deemed fairly fresh.

"Well, _he_ can have the broth, but I'm starved," Jacob muttered as he weighed the jar in his hand, wondering how much he could get Claude to eat. He looked around the cluttered kitchen and shook his head. "Aw, Bill, how'd you survive all these years?"

Apparently doctors thrived on coffee and penicillin. Bakers, on the other hand, needed heartier meals. Clearing a space for the chilled foods, Jacob rolled up his sleeves and snatched up a towel to use as an apron, and tackled the clutter. The kitchen sink was cleared – oatmeal crusted pot, two plates and a single, over-used spoon scrubbed with scalding, soapy water – the groceries were sorted (not that there was much to be salvaged, except for a few potatoes and a handful of drooping carrots that had probably been donated by a grateful farmwife), the icebox was gutted and organized, the counters were scrubbed, charcoaled oats were chipped from the stove, and the coffee pot was scoured until not a trace of burnt, thrice-brewed grounds remained.

Flour, sugar, and salt was salvaged from an even dustier cupboard. The butter dish was rescued from its position perilously close to the sink. Of course Bill didn't have any yeast or rye – or anything that would make bread decent – but if there was one thing Jacob's grandmother had taught him, it was that a good baker could always make do. He prepared the oven and began mashing ingredients together.

There was a cast-iron loaf pan in the lower right-hand cupboard, salvaged only because Bill was an only child and had been too busy to give away all his great-grandmother's heirlooms. Jacob chewed his lip at the thought of tough, flat bread (in four years he hadn't baked anything so shapeless), then shrugged and tested the oven heat, accepting that food was food and anything was better than army chow.

By the time the kitchen was clean and the bread was in the oven, Jacob figured two hours must've passed. He stood by the window, smiling as the sun in _his_ world tugged a cloud over its head, then reminded himself that there were things besides bedridden wizards that needed to be fed.

Bill's coffeepot was a wondrous thing, once properly maintained, and Jacob savored his first taste of hot liquid in days. Balancing two mugs – one broth and one joe – with a newspaper tucked under his arm, he ambled down the steps and peeked around the stairwell. Green eyes blinked open, and Jacob nodded hello.

"It's morning in New York," he said, raising his arm so that the newspaper plopped onto Claude's workbench. "Figured you'd want some breakfast."

"Not 'zactly." Claude sighed. He curled into himself, looking more ashen if possible. A stool in the corner clatter and he instantly glared at the empty space. "No, Dougal, I know what…."

In a patter of padded feet, the silver monkey materialized. It held out its paw resolutely and Jacob readily surrendered the broth. Claude groaned as the Damascus hopped up beside him and pushed his head to and fro.

"Git off you sodding…."

"Glad you're feeling better," Jacob said between gulps of coffee. It was amazing what a few hours of sleep could do for the mind. "Did… uh… Did the monkey give you something? The Damascus?"

Claude paused with his hand outstretched, eyebrows twitching in confusion. Dougal gradually peeled his barring fingers away from the mug and shuffled closer.

"Dougal?" Claude finally guessed. It sounded more like "Thougal", probably because there was still a significant split in both front teeth, but he was finally forming real words. Jacob nodded, encouraged. Finally Claude blinked, clarity brightening his eyes. "Th-emiguith. Tttdd- _emiguisthe_."

He scowled, and Jacob hesitantly offered, "….Demiguy?"

 _"Guy-th_." Claude nodded and thrust the mug away from his face again.

"Demi…guise," Jacob determined. He slugged another mouthful of coffee.

Claude inspected his cracked teeth with his tongue and batted Dougal over the head. He looked at the cocoon hanging above him, hauled himself to one elbow, and before Jacob could properly choke Claude launched to his knees, only to flop to the floor into a pathetic, half-akimbo sprawl.

The monkey offered the mug again.

"Sh'dup, Dougal," Claude mumbled.

"Gotta hand it to you," Jacob said, tugging the Brit back into his nest, "I don't think Bill's ever had a worse patient."

Claude wrinkled his nose. He peered at Jacob, hazel eyes pertinent despite the bruising that had deepened into a painful-looking shroud of indigo. Apparently magic couldn't heal everything.

"You're a Mbuggle," Claude stated.

"Pardon?" Jacob searched the possible translations. Mugger, muddled, mud puddle, bugle.

Claude heaved a sigh, finally accepting a sip from the prodding mug. "Muggle," he repeated, forcing the 'm'. "You don't have bagic."

Bagic?

"Oh! - No, I'm not a wizard," Jacob agreed. "Just an ordinary, nondescript bloke like every other factory worker in New York." He slurped his coffee and added, "I thought maybe I could be something extraordinary – you know, handing out doughnuts and smiling at all the ….." he trailed off, realizing he was prattling to a complete stranger.

So maybe this was Claude, and he'd called him his kid brother, but this wasn't a dog he'd found on the street that would give him loyalty, companionship, and a lifetime of fleas in exchange for a few pats on the head. He couldn't adopt one of Bill's patients.

"Uh… yeah," Jacob said feebly, avoiding Claude's unnerving stare. "So that's me. In case we weren't properly introduced – I mean, you were kind of out of it last night." He gritted his teeth, failing conversationally again, and scratched the back of his neck. "Uh… Jacob. Jacob Kowalski."

The Brit drew his tongue very precisely behind his teeth. "N-ew- _dttt_ ," he enunciated.

"Nude – oh, Newt?" Jacob glanced at the Demiguise, who was regarding him with wisdom and definite mockery. "Newt? Newt Sal – Scar – Scalamander," he remembered, snapping his fingers. "Newt Scalamander."

Claude groaned into the pillow.

No. Not Claude. Newt. The revelation of the Brit's name left Jacob feeling strangely hollow. For a moment he compared it to Mildred walking out of the apartment. It was foolishness, of course. He'd taken things too far, given himself the security of having something like family again, while all the time Claude belonged to someone far away, across the ocean, part of a magical realm that Jacob would never understand. He'd never had any right to call the Brit "kin."

Too late to warn himself about getting attached. Soldiering past the disappointment, Jacob forced a queasy smile. "I … uh… I didn't know your name before," he muddled, salvaging one last piece of a week devoted to the care and protection of a stupid kid. "I called you Claude, actually." He chuckled, trying to pass it off as a joke.

Chewing the split on the corner of his mouth, Newt looked into the corner as though pondering. "You didn't have a name," he finally slurred. "S'only natural. But I don' need a nickname."

"Heh, figured as much," Jacob agreed. He clenched the coffee mug, feeling like he'd been slugged in the stomach. Honestly, he'd kinda liked Claude better. _Newt_ didn't need an older brother. Apparently he could take care of himself very well.

Jacob reminisced the day he had walked away from the bakery and all his dreams. Funny how being the Good Samaritan had given him a jinx instead of a blessing.

"Well, I guess the animals should be fed," Jacob said, shuffling to his feet and stretching exaggeratedly.

"Not 'till 'morrow," Newt mumbled.

"Right… well… bread should be done, at least."

 _"Thank you."_

The quiet words froze Jacob at the stairwell.

"Uh…." A thousand thoughts flooded him. Mopping up after the kid. Keeping him alive. Digging him out of that horrible crowd. Haranguing Bill into tending him. Staying up hours on end. Keeping the vexing mole outta Bill's stuff. _Trying_ to be a good caretaker.

"The wizard," Newt said. He coughed into his wrist cast and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Oh – yeah – that," Jacob said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "No big deal. Couldn't let him finish what Mary Lou started." He turned, curiosity trumping the need to check the oven. "Who was that guy, anyways?"

Brown clouded green as Newt looked away. "Dangerous wizard," he lisped. "Someone… I didn't know until… but it was him. Somehow he found….."

"Found?" Jacob pressed. "Found what? Who's _he?_ "

Newt's voice was low and – Jacob was uneasy to think it – scared. "Grind'wald."

 _Grindehwaud,_ Jacob translated. Unusual name. Whoever the wizard was, he was bad enough to give Claude – _Newt_ – as much a scare as Mary Lou Barebone, and Jacob had a feeling this guy was much worse.

Hard to imagine anyone worse than _her_.

"Thank you," Newt repeated softly, "For stopping him."

"Sure," Jacob murmured. He remembered the oppressive sense that he should leave the room, leave Claude to this stranger's dealings, tinker in the kitchen until all was said and done. Until _what_ was done?

"What did he want?" Jacob wondered, thinking about the blue tendril and how close the room felt, like any minute _everything_ could be lost.

Instantly Newt's face shuttered. "Nothing important," he mumbled. "Better he didn't find it."

"Find what?" Jacob pressed.

Green scalded him, desperate and anxious. Holding up his hands, Jacob backed away.

"Okay, fine. I'm just a Muggle, not sure I'd trust me either." He set one foot on the step, missing Newt's cringe, and advised, "Better let the monkey have its way. Probably won't shut up until you finish that broth, and… well, Bill said you should be eating more, anyways. He's right. Gotta get your strength back so…."

He broke off and tramped up the stairs before he could wallow any further. What was he trying to say, anyways? _Get your strength back so you can leave and take all your beasts with you? So you can fight back if that wizard finds us again? So you can stop hanging around on other people's charity?_

 _Gotta get your strength back so you can go home,_ Jacob had meant. As painful as it was, as sickened as he already felt, it was the truth.

Claude was only the name of his neighbor's mangy beagle, and Jacob Kowalski didn't have a family. Newt Scamander didn't belong in his world.

By the time Jacob returned to the kitchen the bread was charred.

* * *

"So what's a Demiguise eat?" Jacob wondered to himself as he skittered down the steps, eager to get the job done and then maybe go back upstairs and lose himself in the kitchen.

The Brit sheepishly opened his eyes, as though caught in the act of _not sleeping_. Jacob hoped the increased awareness meant he was healing, and not going insomniac. Not that he'd had any hand in the healing process. Magic was the source of all miracles, apparently.

"Book," Newt murmured, eyelids half-drooping again. "Table."

Faltering, Jacob scanned the work bench and leaned over, brushing a few scraps of paper aside. No book, unless it was invisible. "Here?" he confirmed.

Newt screwed his eyes shut and then grumbled under his breath. "Coat," he amended. "Pocket."

Definitely still healing. Monosyllables were the current limit, and they didn't provide much direction. Scooping up the coat from where he'd flung it aside, Jacob brushed at the dirt and searched both pockets. Lint, crumbs, a few dried plants, an empty phial, miniscule triangles of silver shell (did he hatch snakes in his pockets?), pebbles like those of New York's streets which were kicked around by careless children (or – the worst implication – unsympathetic citizens), a handkerchief with a scorched corner, a chunk that looked suspiciously like meat that had putrefied and dried out from neglect, and finally a leather bound notebook. Newt hummed in confirmation at the last object.

"What's this?" Jacob asked.

"Doug'l," Newt said around a yawn. "B'wtr'ckle, 'guise, 'trumpet….."

His voice faded, and his consciousness with it. Flipping the pages of the book, Jacob squinted at the tiny, precise print.

"Fantast…ical beasts and where to… find them." Shaking his head blearily, he rubbed his eyes. "I can barely read it."

He glanced at the stairwell, debating. He had plenty of daylight, New York time. He could do something useful. Bill would probably appreciate eating something that didn't come out of a can – and frankly, Jacob was tired of coffee and whatever stale foodstuff was immediately available.

"Baking," Jacob said decisively. He could read whatever this mumbo-jumbo was while something was crisping in the oven. And this time, there would be no distractions.

Long after his resolution, after six unleavened loaves were cooling upstairs, after he'd made use of Bill's shower and mirror and finally shaved, after he'd made a passable stew from the doctor's wilted vegetables, Jacob lounged back in the chair by Claude… Newt's bed and held the journal close to the light. He mouthed the words, peering at tiny letters and scribbled pictures, and marveled that one man had paid such attention to the animals of his world.

"Bowtruckle…. Basilisk…. Billiwig?"

Somewhere in the "Mooncalves" section, the book slid out of his hands and was caught up by the Demiguise. Reverently Dougal slid the book onto the workbench and dimmed the lights, before hopping down and surveying the sleeping humans. It wadded Newt's coat into a lumpy circle and snuggled down, yellow eyes unblinking.

It kept watch through the night hours of the suitcase and into New York's evening, as a familiar stranger came and went.

When Jacob woke much later, oddly warm and suffering from a wrenched neck, he opened his eyes to find a wool spread covering his lap and a canteen of lukewarm coffee sitting on the workbench with a note from an old friend.

Bill's rapid, long-handed script was looped across a page torn from the back of Newt's book. "Off to see the kids. You're both hopeless cases and I feel sorry for your future wives."

He had left behind a crumb-littered plate, a bottle marked 'for coughing fits', and a shiny silver sugar bowl filled with bread sopped in milk.

Under Newt's chin he had tucked a checkered red and blue quilt.


	10. The Wizard's World

**Seeing as it's been a while, here's a basic review of the previous chapters:**

 **Newt is mobbed by the good people of New York under Mary Lou Barebone's directive. Jacob takes him in, asking his army friend (and more importantly a doctor) "O'l Bill" to keep the wizard alive. Without a proper name, he gives Newt the name "Claude" He's forced to take care of Newt's creatures since poor "Claude" isn't up to the task. Grindelwald makes his first appearance, shooing Jacob away with an Imperio while he tries to interrogate Newt. He is thwarted by the noble Niffler and Jacob escapes with Newt to Bill's place, where Newt finally gets into his suitcase and starts on the path to not-actually-dying-here. He and Jacob finally have their first sort-of conversation. Bill isn't excited about wizards hiding their medical magical masterminds from ordinary muggles, but he warms up to Newt a bit. The last chapter ends with Jacob reading Newt's journal about the fantastic beasts and how to properly care for them.**

* * *

.

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* * *

Feeding was easier after Jacob outlined the Brit's guidebook on magical beasts. Most book stuff was over his head – hence the reason he stuck to baked goods instead of college – but the directions were simple. True, the book was a touch abstract in parts (like who stirred mashed gunk clockwise _exactly_ three times and left it to stew in the sun for hours before adding so many pinches of whatnot and what's-the-herb?), but it told Jacob what he needed to know: what to feed the monsters if the silver monkey didn't happen to be around.

Apparently, _that silver monkey_ also had a classified name. Even wizards believed in science. Dougal was definitely _Demiguise_ and not a Damascus, "Cog" was neither a mole nor a miniature platypus, the entrancing water dwellers known as Kappa were just as dangerous as everything else in the case (Dougal's calm interference between Jacob and certain death was getting to be a touch nerve-wracking), and the dung beetles of immense proportion were – whatta you know – _giant_ _dung beetles_.

The sheet of darkness wasn't in the book.

At least Jacob could name the critters now, and mind his fingers more carefully so that one of them didn't get nipped off.

He figured Newt was getting a bit nippy, too, after the wizard got one sniff of the outdoors and took another inglorious tumble off the bed.

"Someday you'll listen to Dougal," Jacob grunted as he dropped the empty meat bucket and heaved Newt back into his nest. The wizard shot him a fuming glare, which Jacob suspected would have held more heat if the Brit wasn't so darn passive.

"I'm fine," Newt ground out, the 'ff' still sounding like he had a pebble wedged between his lower lip and his teeth. "You can't keep me here."

Oh, so now Jacob was playing the jail warden and not the doctor's aid. Or maybe Newt always pouted like that when someone told to stay put. It was certainly a rebellious stint – maybe even a tantrum. Jacob almost wondered if the Brit _did_ have an older brother.

"Hey, doctor's orders," Jacob said pitilessly. "That leg might be healed but you're still hobbling on one ankle."

Newt rolled his eyes, as though adults were simple-minded obstacles who governed the world under the dusty spectacles of common sense.

Now Jacob was thinking of 'Claude the Kid' again.

"I'll just sit outside," Newt mumbled. "Can't get into any trouble there."

He seemed very interested in memorizing Bill's quilt. Jacob would have bet his bakery blueprints that this guy had an older sibling somewhere, probably calling hail and brimstone down on whatever hapless city had kidnapped his baby brother.

He shivered at the thought.

"It's sunlight," Newt said softly. "S'posed to be healing, isn't it?"

Glassy green eyes blinked once as though to assure _'I'm innocent, can't you see I won't do anything'_ , but that one crooked shoulder testified only mischief. The kid with the blind crow could lie just as easy.

"Uh-huh," Jacob said dryly. He glanced at the book, the keeper of unanswered questions, and changed tactics. Drawing the chair over, he slung it backwards and straddled it, looping his arms over the headrest, trying to make his unimposing self seem harmless and trustworthy.

Well, as much as he could. The Brit seemed to know how to track everything in the room without actually looking up.

"So… before you do the whole meet-and-greet with all the creatures…." Jacob began, and took note that Newt perked up instantly at the dangled carrot, "There's something I wanna know about them. Like, where'd you find all of 'em, anyways?"

Newt picked at his cast. "Around," he said vaguely. "Been adding them over time. Rehabilitating as I can."

"So it's like a park?" Jacob ventured. "An – an animal sanctuary of sorts?"

"Of sorts," Newt agreed. He hesitated, his shoulders dipping slightly, and added, "They take to you."

"Well, they haven't killed me yet," Jacob allowed. He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "Although the pink thing did try to take a chunk outta my foot before Dougal chased it off."

"It's a murtlap," Newt said, nodding once. "It's native to the coast of Britain."

"Uh-huh. And the Nundu," Jacob added, huffing in disbelief. "You don't realize how big it is until you stand right up to it – "

"Don't do that," Newt said, scowling like a professor who didn't really know how to stop a backtalker. "Their breath can kill entire villages."

"Yeah, they – uh…." Jacob's smile faded and he cleared his throat. "Right. Very dangerous. Do they get much bigger than that? Cause, uh, they're eating twelve sheep apiece and….." He pulled his collar at the affirming nod.

"Don't get too close," Newt rasped, before coughing into his sleeve.

"Dougal warned me off," Jacob assured. He paused, rubbing his sweaty palms, and plunged into the question. "I… uh… wasn't sure what to feed the one in the icebox."

Newt's eyebrows flew high.

"The winter habitat," Jacob clarified. "You know, snow and cold? Swirling patch of … black stuff? What do you call that thing, anyways?"

Dismay eclipsed budding green into hazel. Newt focused more intently on the scarlet thread he was unraveling from the quilt.

"Oh." Jacob's eyebrows pinched together. "That dangerous, huh….?" He paused, picked a straw out of the wicker backing, and then added, "Felt kinda lonely."

Hazel scrutinized him for a brief instant. Jacob focused on the chair.

"S'an Obscurus," Newt finally mumbled. "It's pure magic. Very powerful."

"So it doesn't need to eat anything?" Jacob guessed. That explained one mystery. "Why's it penned up?"

The Brit's nose curled as though he'd been affronted. "It's safer there," he said quietly. "It can't hurt anyone."

Jacob prodded too harshly at the wicker and hissed, snatching his hand away. Wincing, he scraped at a raised line of wood in his thumb. "Who's it safe from?"

He didn't see the surprised glow in Newt's eyes, or the tilt of that obstinate shoulder as it slowly relaxed.

"That's irrelevant now," Newt said softly. He gnawed his lip and began detangling a blue thread. "She… she was a wizard. A powerful one, I think, given the Obscurus. She was only eight."

The blue thread sprang free, and torn nails began wrangling the next.

"What happened?" Jacob pressed.

Newt stilled.

"She died," he said at last, with a quiet sigh as though he had explained it too many times, in far too many unwelcome scenarios. "I pulled the Obscurus from her, but the separation from her magic destroyed her."

"Mag – that was _her_ magic?" Jacob interjected.

Newt didn't reply, scratching at a neat hole made from the separated threads.

"So that's… kind of a piece of her in there," Jacob summarized. "I didn't know wizards could do….."

Stormy eyes narrowed and Newt viciously dug his thumb between two patches. Half worried for the Brit's emotional state and half terrified of what Bill would say when he saw his great-great-grandmother's quilt being attacked, Jacob rapidly changed the subject.

"Is that what the wizard was after?"

Immediately Newt's head swung up, attention restored.

"Well, he wanted something, right?" Jacob ventured. "Was it the – the Obscurus? He wanted the magic?"

A long, uncertain blink, and then Newt shook his head. "No. It can't do anything without the host." He went back to savaging the thread count.

"Why was he after you?" A final cringe and a speckle of blood, and Jacob flicked the sliver out of his thumb.

Newt's shoulders tensed. His fingers gathered in cotton fabric, anchoring deeply though it must have caused him pain. "How should I know?" The hoarseness in his voice was almost a whisper. "I'm just here to observe magical creatures. I was never involved in any of Theseus'…"

He trailed off, clamping his mouth shut like a child who had spilled a secret and knew that now someone would make him tell.

Jacob almost did just that, almost asked who Theseus was, and why the dark wizard wanted to know his business, and why either of them could be found in New York, and why Newt of all people would be considered a valuable informant, and how Grindelwald knew that he should track Bill down in the first place….

But before he could ask any of these questions, the Erumpent stamped two massive feet in the doorway and snorted. Newt's attention span was shattered instantly.

"Coming," he mumbled, tossing the quilt aside. He twisted both legs over the bed, faltered on the scarred one, and would have bloodied his nose on the workbench if Jacob hadn't nearly tripped over his own chair in time to grab his shoulder.

"Really?" Jacob chastised – uselessly, considering that Newt was hopelessly oblivious to his own limits. He slung the Brit's arm over his shoulder, feeling for a second that this was right – that Claude was back, being an idiot like usual.

"Help me outside," Newt requested, and the moment was gone.

"Don't blame me if Bill nags you for this," Jacob warned as he guided the significantly _taller_ if gawky wizard around the wicker chair.

The moment they cross the threshold, and Newt nudged the Erumpent aside with a simple brush to its nose, and the sunlight creased his battered face, the fretful lines eased and he slumped against Jacob, willingly settling in as he was lowered against the wall just outside the door.

And then Jacob was the one shoved aside as the Erumpent nosed in, snuffling Newt's hair and blowing distastefully at whatever fleas the wizard might've picked up at Jacob's apartment. It was the first of many reunions, and hardy the most emotional.

Jacob was forced to retreat inside the building as the whole of the suitcase zoo amassed, feathers and hooves and fur dusting the air as each creature scurried or pranced or bounded to meet its caretaker. The Thunderbird competed with the Nundu for the loudest exultation, and Jacob wondered how a prickled cat that could slay villages with a single huff could _purr_ as it bumped into Newt's shoulder and knocked him flat.

The Murtlap groveled by Newt's bare feet, rolling its belly for a scratch – not even remotely threatening, much to Jacob's chagrin. Newt complied, and was instantly beset upon by a throng of chittering plants and a Swooping Evil that demanded either affection or brains, in whichever order was proffered. The Niffler wriggled into the mass, claiming Newt's lap, and slapped his arm until he glanced down for a moment at the stethoscope which the critter eagerly dug out of its pouch.

In that freakish, unearthly moment, as hideous beasts squalled for Newt's attention, Jacob thought of another mob, one in a dismal, busy street, where humans clamored for blood and no one intervened. Now Newt was laughing, detangling a silently twittering pink bird from his robe, closing his eyes in exhausted, peaceful euphoria.

And Bill thought it was humanity's right to put all of this in a glass case for scientists to scratch notes about and medical doctors to dissect.

Maybe his heart was in the right place – Bill didn't have any more cruelty in his veins than a beggar's toothless mutt – but he didn't know this world. Not like Jacob. He didn't know what humans could destroy.

Or maybe he knew it all too well. Maybe there'd be less jars of calves foot jelly and more evenings of sitting around, enjoying his great-great-great grandfather's furniture, if people would stop haranguing each other and give him a few hours of peace. Maybe Jacob was the delusional one, always thinking that people were a little better, a little kinder, always forgetting that they were all born with a selfish pining for someone to be a little lower than themselves.

Society tried to make beautiful worlds just like the suitcase, but more often it just glazed over the heart of man.

Plopping down in the grass, Jacob held out his hand to the Thunderbird and shivered as it lowered its head and gently nipped his fingers. Newt paused worriedly, then relaxed in confidence as the mighty bird of prey accepted his companion. Jacob chuckled, amazed, and waggled his fingers at the Niffler.

The pestilential nuisance stuck out its tiny pink tongue and shuffled into the crook of Newt's elbow.

"He's not going to take it away," Newt promised, ducking one Graphorn's slimy salutation.

"I can't believe this," Jacob said, watching two Billiwigs swivel in a mating flight. "This is amazing."

"You really think so?" Newt said. For a moment it was just Claude looking back, green eyes sparked and naïve, just like the dopey kid who would unleash magic in the middle of Mary Lou's witch hater's rally.

The kid never really left, Jacob realized. He was just more of a hassle to look after when he tried to maneuver the world on his own.

He wondered who Theseus was, and if he had ever felt the same.

Sunlight erupted in a crash of lightning, and rain sent the Niffler scrabbling under Newt's arm. The other beasts cowered, edging away from the Thunderbird as the storm crescendoed.

"What's going on?" Jacob hollered.

Newt's face was white. "Get me up there!" he pleaded, thrusting the Niffler into the grass. He gripped the shack walls, trying to pull himself up. Jacob had his arm in an instant. He pulled him out of the downpour and shut the door, shaking water droplets out of his hair.

"What is it, some kind of warning?"

"Upstairs!" Newt demanded, lurching ahead of Jacob.

"Lemme go," Jacob insisted, grabbing the Brit's coat. He shoved it on the wizard's shoulders even as Newt batted him away. "Look, it's probably one of Bill's customers." More likely the electrician with a neglected bill. "I'll send him off and be right back down."

"I'm not letting him down here!" Newt's teeth chattered, his energy pouring out in helpless passion and antagonism that could only be rooted in fear for something well loved. "I'm not – I'm not letting him hurt them!"

"Okay, okay," Jacob shushed, buttoning the coat securely and wishing he'd thought to grab the Brit's shoes. "Okay, we're going upstairs. But I'm checking first, all right? We won't let him in."

Newt nodded agitatedly, staggering ahead, expecting Jacob to match his pace and not let him fall. He nearly did fall, lunging around Jacob's back to grab the silver-tipped wand from the workbench, and held it awkwardly in his left hand as he shuffled up the steps. He was shivering from more than cold, green eyes jaded in anticipation as the suitcase swung open.

Jacob pushed forward so that he was the first out of the case. He turned slowly, taking in the fluffy, dust-mite infested spare bed, the closet, the closed bedroom door. No wizards or intruders. Slumping, Jacob stooped and helped Newt clamber out of the case.

"See, it's fine," he reassured, shivering at a rush of air that swished just before he shut the case. "This is Bill's house, remember? Nothing can….."

The bedroom door creaked open, and Newt blanched as white as the Obscurus' terrain. Jacob blinked several times, flustered, and exclaimed, "Bill!"

The doctor's hollow, weary eyes cleared in a snap. He glanced at the two of them, peered at the bedroom, scratched his head, and then narrowed his eyes at Newt.

"By all that's sainted and martyred, Kowalski, what's he doin' on his feet?"

Jacob stammered, whether to voice a response or a warning, he would never know.

But he would forever regret.

A hand clasped the back of Bill's neck. A simple squeeze, a murmured spell. The doctor's head lolled and he fell over his suitcase.

 _"Bill!"_ Jacob hollered, lunging to catch his friend.

Several things happened at once. The dark wizard raised his wand, something heavy and invisible bounded onto Jacob's shoulder, he sprawled against the suitcase, instinctively grabbing hold, and Newt seized his shoulder before flopping his left hand. The silver-tipped wand flashed, the room vanished, and Jacob fell in a clatter of suitcase and smoke and the agony of knowing he had seen Ol' Bill walk into a sickroom for the last time.


	11. Taken

Jacob's shoulder cracked against stone as leather binding thudded against the far wall. Needling sparks ricocheted from his collarbone to his fingertips. He groaned, testing the joint, muttering an oath and a prayer when it moved without hitching. No dislocation.

Briefly Jacob scanned the narrow brick walls, blackened with soot and grime and the shadow of New York's eventide. He hissed between his teeth, recognizing familiar territory. This was the alley just outside the bank. This was where it all began.

A sharp whimper across the alley sent Jacob blundering to his feet. He swore profoundly and scampered, narrowly missing a puddle that could have been dog or horse or human. Before Newt could slide into the waste Jacob grabbed his arm, leaning him against the filthy wall again. The Brit cringed against him, wand falling from lax, blue-tinged fingers, and something darker than rain spattered the ground.

Jacob swore. "Here – no – lemme see it." He pulled Newt into the dim streetlight, already feeling wetness squelch from torn fabric. Newt cried out and shoved with his casted arm.

"L-Leave it. My case!"

"Case is fine!" Jacob insisted, pulling back the ripped ends of the left sleeve. Orange light revealed an inch-wide gash that split the arm from shoulder to wrist, before blood welled into rainwater and red cascaded over Jacob's hands.

"Oh, man, that's…. that's bad," Jacob whispered, shrugging out of his coat and bundling it around Newt's arm. The wizard swayed, already wracked with shivers, his hobbled ankle barely supporting his weight.

"Easy – stay with me, kay?" Jacob hushed as he tied the sleeves ferociously tight. "Is it magic? Did he curse you?"

Slurried eyes blinked agitatedly. "Splinched," Newt gasped out. "Wrong wand."

"You're gonna be okay," Jacob swore. "We're gonna get you to a doctor." Not Bill. He couldn't think about Bill. "Hey, taxi!"

He was too far away for the cabbie to hear him, and before he could shout again Newt twisted free and tottered three steps before collapsing an arm's length from the case, blood-slicked fingers closing around the wand. He scuttled forward on his elbows, splinted fingers scrabbling at the suitcase latches.

"Clau – Hey, wait!" Jacob shouted, pelting to the wizard's side. "Leave it – we gotta go!" He turned to holler for a taxi again.

Air crackled to their right and he knew it was already too late. Keening, Newt wrenched his bad wrist and flung the latches open. "Move!"

Jacob didn't know what possess him, but he jumped. Away from Newt, away from the case, scant inches from a mauling crush of shrouded death. He saw Grindehwaud retreat, bracing one hand, before the darkness breached its cocoon and lunged in a twist of concussive blasts so loud and physical that Jacob could only think – _Claude!_ – before the wall sprang into his face and roaring filled his hearing. His cheekbone crunched and his right eye went black. He rolled, smashed into the wall again, and rolled onto his side, barely lifting an arm in time as the entire fire escape crashed over his head.

He dimly realized the alley was quiet again. That blood was trickling down his face. Someone was moaning his name.

Dark shoes stepped out of the sifting rubble, striding purposefully to the left. Newt screamed. A blue coat slithered past Jacob's line of sight, and there was another crack.

Jacob opened his mouth, reedy air pushing through the pain in his throat. "N- New-"

Silence.

 _No_.

Just before blood forced Jacob's single eye shut, he knew he was delusional. For an instant orange light glinted on silver fur, before the soft ' _click'_ of latches closing jolted his hearing. A low whimper sounded above the creak of settling iron, and with a springing patter the suitcase bobbed out of sight.

Then Jacob let the pain take his mind away from the anguish. Bill was gone. The dark wizard had Newt. And he was dying.

Maybe when he opened his eyes, he'd know he'd always been dreaming.

* * *

Setting foot in his bakery for the first time, a deed in his hand and a battered suitcase fisted in clammy fingers, Jacob glanced over the empty shelves with dismay. There were a few scattered pastries, stale and inedible, probably as dusty as the rest of the building. Cobwebs looped every corner. The door was just like the one in his bedroom closet, chipped with one beaten streak down the middle. One lonely table looked more like it belonged in Bill's ancient kitchen.

But this was _his_ bakery. Despite the age, despite the fact that this was opening day, he was expecting customers, and not a single bag of flour was unpacked, it was still his dream. Everything he had ever wanted. Everything Mildred had left him for lacking thereof.

Setting down the case, Jacob stepped across the polished wood floor and unfolded the bakery deed.

He curled his nose at the image of naked women dancing on the front page.

"Wake up! _Wake up!"_

A deep-set, dusty cough ripped Jacob out of his dream. His half-vision swished into black, before both eyes settled on an ashen, iron-barred world.

"Wake up!" the voice commanded.

Coughing again, pain rattling through his chest, Jacob hurled himself onto one elbow and groaned. Too quickly he remembered. The dark wizard – _Grindehwaud_ , Newt called him. Spells and the horrible, quenched gutter of Newt's struggle.

Then being buried alive.

"You're all right! Please tell me yes!"

The tinny, panicky voice pulled his attention down to the small hand braced against his shoulder. Squinting at soot-marked fingers, Jacob blinked dizzily until grey eyes and dirty curls stabilized into a child's anxious expression.

"You can hear me, can't you?"

Jacob nodded slowly, and the girl swirled into a peach and grey blur.

"No! You mustn't fall asleep again!"

 _Something_ jolted through him, energizing and rough and frigid, like a chunk of ice stuck to the roof of his mouth. Jacob hollered as he spasmed upright and fell onto his other arm. Pain sliced down his back and into his shoulders, congealing at his temples until he thought his right eye would explode. He shuddered, feeling returning in muscle-gripping pangs that send buzzing numbness through one limb after another. When the sensation finally ceased and he could move his toes without ants biting every nip of skin along the way, he shifted one leg, then the other, then carefully braced his arms against the ground.

No broken limbs. His shoulder felt torn apart, but ….

He should be dead. A solid _fire escape_ had crashed over his head and here he was, crawling away, his wits still intact. Jacob wasn't a doctor (no, that had been Bill's task _before_ – _before_ – ) but he knew humans could only survive so much, and he wasn't a ninderheaded, nigh invincible wizard.

But someone out there _was_ , and he would die because Jacob was only human.

"Can you talk?" the girl asked, crouching beside him with the merciful innocence that only children exhibited.

"H-h-h-h-h!" Jacob hacked around the hoarse syllable, bracing an arm against his stomach as his ribs shifted. Heaving, he gasped out, "How'd you find me?"

Grey eyes flew alight with pride. "I saw your arm under the ladder." The girl looked around, flighty as a spooked crow, then leaned closer and whispered, "I think I magicked you back to life!"

She clapped her hands over her mouth, trembling as though fear and giddiness had overwhelmed her and vanity had won.

"Magicked…." Jacob huffed, falling back on some protective line that meant something for a kid named Claude and nothing to the rest of the non-believing world. "Ain't such thing's magic."

He didn't see fear relight in steel grey, but he felt the hand jilt just before it could settle on his arm.

"I was… make believing," the girl stuttered. "Of course I know there's no such thing as magic. Mother's always said witches are born of fire and wicked dreams."

Raising his head, cringing past the slicing pang between his temples, Jacob peered at the young face. For an instant he saw the same uncertainty and senseless courage as that of a young wizard in a blue coat who didn't know how to run. A week ago he would've thought that Mary Lou Barebone's child was mighty peculiar.

Now he wondered if he'd been misreading magic in New York his entire life.

"You… you say you magicked me?" Jacob asked, trying to be gentle and instead giving himself the impression that he merely sounded like he'd been half-crushed and left for dead.

Jaw clenched, the girl forced a nod. "You can't tell my mother," she said fiercely, raising her chin. "She ain't here anymore, and the police won't believe you."

"I won't," Jacob whispered. Brave, foolish child. Were all wizards so ignorant of the ferocity to be found in strangers?

But he wouldn't be the one to destroy this child's trust.

Jacob cleared his throat, failing to clear the rusted scrape in his voice. "You see another wizard?" With a blue coat. There _had_ to be a blue coat.

"Only you. Are you magical, too?" Such awe in the eyes of hovering snow clouds. The child skittered back, allowing Jacob to roll to his knees.

"No." He coughed into his elbow, grateful when his ribs only clenched instead of threatening to crush his stomach. There should've been more broken bones. "You said you – you _magicked_ me back to life?"

"I…." Grubby fingers laced uncertainly. "I felt something push into you – like it was making the hurts go away. My brother told me magic could help people. I tried to do it for Chastity, but…."

Jacob tried to nod agreeably, even though he had no idea if Chastity was a person or a pet cat, but he could only moan as vertigo crushed his skull. The girl suddenly jumped to her feet, scowling with the primness of a distempered magpie – that, or she might have been repulsed, as Jacob's stomach chose that moment to leap from his throat – but before the heaves could settle and he could ask her to call for help, scuffed shoes clattered on far streets and a blur of grey slurred into the surrounding buildings.

Collapsing against the gutted wall, clawing at his ringing head, Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for the flashing lights to stop.

He knew this was bad. Head injuries coupled with vomiting always scored deep underlines in Bill's medical journals. He knew that while he was wallowing, crawling away from his own sick, that somewhere – in New York or England or however far wizards could travel – someone wickeder than Mary Lou held a kid too battered to defend himself.

But as the spike in his head pounded deeper than a tent peg, Jacob couldn't bring himself to care.

He just wanted to close his eyes and feel nothing.


	12. Heal the Sick

"Modesty, what are you doing?"

" _Helping_ someone! What does it look like?"

"We shouldn't…."

"Mother isn't _here_ anymore. And besides, I don't care what she says. _You_ won't let her hurt me."

Small arms tugged Jacob's arm and he groaned, trying to snatch back dark curtains as they shredded, leaving him in a world more painful than his nightmares.

"Help me, Credence."

An overbearing sigh followed, before larger hands gripped his other wrist and hauled. Light blared as Jacob rolled with the movement, bile rising in his throat.

His first queasy, white-hot thought was, _Those were nice shoes…._ His second was to wish he'd never been woken in the first place.

Soft cussing followed, and the girl immediately scolded, "You shouldn't swear, Credence!"

"Well, Mother isn't _here_ , is she?"

"It's not polite, anyhow!"

"Shuddup," Jacob groaned, feebly batting at his head. He was cruelly dragged upright and forced to lean on a narrow shoulder.

"We find a doctor and leave him there," the one called Credence said. His voice was low and urgent, like a soldier watching the sky for bombers.

"Bill can help!" Modesty said perkily.

The boy hissed. "We can't expect him to do everything."

"He'll help us, Credence," Modesty insisted, yanking on Jacob's arm in emphasis.

"Can we…." Jacob swallowed the sour taste in his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. "Set me down for a minute?"

Wizards. Blue coat. Something was trying to make sense, but his brain felt like a glob of half-risen dough that had flopped into the dishwater.

"Hospital," Credence said with finality. "We can't take care of him."

"Fine. _You_ call a cab," Modesty said snidely.

The hands around Jacob's left arm tensed, and the shoulder juddered. Uneven breaths rasped in his ear.

"I'm not falling for your wiles," Credence said shakily.

"Oh, come _on!_ " Modesty said, stamping her foot. "I found him! If we leave him there, it's just as good as if I killed him – and that's my soul, isn't it?"

Whatever she was threatening, it held merit for the other kid's conscience, because with a quieter sigh and less grumbling Credence took more of Jacob's weight.

"Just until Bill comes," Credence acceded.

Modesty's tread quickened into a skip, and she skittered forward, pulling the two men along. Jacob focused on the asphalt – merciful hues of blank grey – and swallowed each time the ground tried to meld with his head.

"We'll be in trouble," Credence mumbled, shifting too often as though his shoulder needed more attention than what was in front of him.

"You always say that, and we never are!"

Wizard. Blue coat. Newt!

Jacob opened his mouth to ask if they'd seen a kid who badly needed a haircut and a few splints, but he shut it just as quickly, choking on a burst of acid in the back of his throat. Credence's shoes scampered to the side.

"He looks awful," Modesty sympathized. "Do you think Bill can fix him?"

"Hush, Modesty," Credence scolded.

A temperamental whine followed, and the child stomped along in silence. Jacob closed his eyes.

* * *

Jacob didn't care where they set him. He remembered a hole in the alley, the closing of a door, and the blissfulness of a dark room. It was cold and drafty, like an abandoned church. Hoarse coughs punctuated heavy breathing, reminding him of Claude.

Claude. In the hands of a dark wizard. Grindel-something or other.

Forcing his eyes open, Jacob tried to make sense of his surroundings. He had to get up. Had to find….

He gripped his pocket as the pain intensified in his head, and glass clinked against his fingers. Hope flared in sync with nausea. He was barely aware that he was retching before someone slammed a rusty pan under his reeling head.

"He shouldn't be here," Credence said with an oath.

"We couldn't leave him!"

"He'll pass it on to Chastity!"

"No he won't!"

Twisting the smaller bottle out of his pocket, Jacob peered at the blurred label and decided he was dying already – one wrong medicine could only finish the job. He yanked to cork with his teeth, coughed the last strands of sick from his mouth, and knocked back half the phial. Clenching his teeth, shuddering, he waited for a miracle.

Seconds passed.

One minute, and the headache seemed worse. Jacob squeezed his eyes shut as the ringing in his ears shrieked above Modesty and Credence's voices.

Two minutes.

Suddenly the cramping in his ribs numbed into dull throbbing and the knife was retracted from his skull. Breathing in hoarse gusts, Jacob shakily capped the phial and thanked whatever doctoring witches had created a cure-all medicine and instructed a demiguise to give it to a monotonous, magicless mortal.

"Credence, don't be such a bully!" Modesty continued to bicker.

"Don't call me that!"

Jacob wondered if it was his imagination that the window shutters rattled just as the boy clenched his fists. Modesty's shoes scuffled.

"Credence, d-don't. You'll scare Chastity again."

"Everyone's scared," Credence retorted, and the quietness in his voice chilled Jacob. "The police, the grocer… even Old Bill can't stand to be around us."

"Don't say that!" Modesty pleaded. "You won't hurt us, Credence, I know you won't!"

"Whoah, whoah," Jacob broke in, looking anxiously between the two siblings. He eased to the edge of the bench, trying to make sense of the atmosphere. "What's all this about?"

Credence's left shoulder dropped, like a private who'd forgotten to clean his gun for the third time in a week. "Nothing."

"You're awake!" Modesty said.

Jacob breathed out quietly, longing for yesterday. When wizards and magic were kept to a suitcase and he could have expected Bill to tramp through the rotting, creaky door and start complaining about how Jacob was spreading illness to his patients.

"You know Old Bill," Jacob said.

The siblings shared a dreadful expression.

"Why?" Credence said lowly. His posture was bowed, as though already cowering, but his eyes glinted. For a moment Jacob compared him to a nundu cozying up to another predator. Dangerous.

Wiping clammy hands on his trousers, Jacob told them plainly, "He ain't coming back."

Hurt streaked into blue eyes. "Why not?" Modesty cried out.

"He's…." Jacob swallowed twice. "He's dead." The stabbing feeling returned, this time in the center where he'd once felt content.

Modesty's eyes dropped and she stepped back to sit heavily on the bed. Credence ducked his chin, staring at the molding threshold.

"You kids here alone?" Jacob said, his voice cracking before settling into an even tone.

The children didn't speak. Coughing from the bed turned into a racking wheeze, and Modesty burst into tears.

"What are we gonna do?" she pleaded, hopelessly watching her brother. "Bill said he'd have medicine for her!"

Medicine. Jacob remembered Bill's tirade about wizards and their magic, and the cure-alls that could have saved his patients. He'd said there was a girl with pneumonia….

"Your sister," Jacob said urgently, fingering the bottle. "What happened to her?"

"She's sick," Credence said dully.

"She fell in the ditch," Modesty hiccupped. "There was a funny creature, and a witch, and there were people with wands everywhere, casting spells on people..."

"Modesty, hush!" Credence hissed.

"But it was magic!" Modesty wailed. "It was magic and you know it, and you're just afraid because of that wand you found under my bed!"

"What wand?" Jacob interjected.

Modesty spoke faster, heedless of the interruption. "One of the wizards grabbed Credence. He wouldn't let go of our hands, so we were pulled in, too. That's when Chastity fell – only he wouldn't help her, he just…." She sniffled, yanking on the collar of her dress. "He just left us here. Credence, what if he comes back?"

Another sister. Suddenly Jacob recognized them. "You're Mary Lou's kids!"

"She's not my mother!" Modesty shouted. The spoon on the table rattled.

"Look, I need to know about this wizard," Jacob said, glancing apprehensively around the room. The feeling of the dark curtain – the Obscurus as Newt called it – sank cold into his spine. He uncorked the vial. "But first, let me give this to your sister. It helped me. I think it can save her, too."

 _For Ol' Bill,_ he thought, confidently holding out the potion.

"What is it?" Credence asked, curling his nose at the phial's contents.

"I promise, it won't hurt her," Jacob assured.

"It's magic!" Credence objected. "If Mum were to find out – "

"I don't care!" Modesty broke in, snatching the vial from Jacob's fingers. "I'm not afraid of her anymore!"

The little girl didn't notice, but Jacob saw Credence flinch. Children didn't lose their fears – they interchanged them in lieu of a more dreadful monster.

 _What is she scared of?_ The question sprang to Jacob's tongue, and he swallowed it down. Credence began to pace.

"Come on, Chastity," Modesty urged, brushing her hand over the curled form on the bed. "Bill's friend gave it to me. He says it'll make you better."

"Who was it?" Credence suddenly asked in a heated whisper. He glanced uneasily at Modesty, then riveted on Jacob. "Who killed Bill?"

"A wizard." Jacob leaned forward, his back still wrangling like a sack of laundry beat against the wall. "Not the one in the courtyard – not the one in the blue coat. He'd never hurt anyone."

"Who was it?" Credence demanded.

Jacob pressed a broken nail in place. "Newt called him 'Grindehwaud.' He looked sorta like Dracula, dark and powerful."

Credence didn't exhale for three long beats. "Describe him."

"Like a politician," Jacob said thickly. "Guy in a suit, talks like he could make an invalid walk again, and just when you think he's someone who could make the world a better place he turns out to be the crookedest villain in New York." He flicked off the broken nail, grounding himself in the flash of pain. "I thought he was the good guy."

"Credence?" Modesty broached timidly. A tangled, curly head rested beside her. The wheezing was gone. "Wasn't that… didn't that wizard tell you….?"

Jerking, Credence looked at his shoes. He twitched again, and Jacob almost balked at the intensity in fuming dark eyes. "He killed Bill?"

Numbly Jacob nodded. "Yeah."

Abruptly the young man turned on his heel, striding for the door.

"Credence!" Modesty shrieked. "Where are you going?"

"Modesty, stay here!" Credence snapped. The door crackled and Modesty skittered back. Credence's jaw quivered. "I have to find him. I can't – I can't…."

"He's got Newt," Jacob said, lurching to his feet. The floorboards swayed an instant, but his balance was returning. Thank heavens for miracle antidotes. "He took my friend. If you know anything about him – anything at all – just _point for me_ and I swear I won't be any more trouble!"

Credence looked like he was swallowing lye. Gulping, he slowly slid on his hat and turned the door handle. "Follow me."

In a flash of youth and terror, he slipped around the corner. Jacob heaved a deep breath, galvanizing his aching back and forcing his wobbling legs to carry him on, just like in the army days. He could barely see the brim of Credence's hat as they passed between walls of broken shale. The boy moved effortlessly, gliding past drunkards and flinty-eyed loiterers, and though his head was bowed low, he marched like an armed soldier. This ducking, wavering youngster was the one who held the gun.

Jacob wasn't sure why that scared him half to death.

He pushed the thought back, pressing his weight from one scorching leg to the next, huffing as the route wound uphill, until he looked back and saw the town spread out in every direction. Credence halted.

"There," he said, his voice quiet and tentative as he pointed.

There was an old building on the crest of the hill. It was fire-scorched, the tinted windows powdered with charcoal residue, the steeple crushed.

"That's where they burned the witches," Credence mumbled. "No one's been inside it for years."

His hand quaked as he spread his fingers. In his palm rested a triangular pendant.

"He said I could find him there."


	13. That Old, Broken Steeple

The building was dark. Abandoned. Decaying stones that were covered in moss still held faint engravings from the days when hymns were sung inside the church, but the statues had been torn down.

"What happened here?" Jacob whispered.

Credence flexed one shoulder, scuffling as close to the shadowed wall as possible. "Witches gathered here. The building was locked and the heathen's sins were purged."

Jacob stepped back hard against the archway. "They burned everyone inside?"

The brow of Credence's hat concealed his eyes. "That's what Mother said."

Exhaling shallowly, Jacob stared at the crumbling, blackened steeple. "Why would a wizard come here?"

Hunching, Credence kept walking. For an instant Jacob pictured him in a blue coat. The same skittishness was there, and the sense that he was holding back a confidence that could storm the Muggle world. Yet whereas Newt was obtrusive and irrational, Credence Barebone was …

Shaking his head, Jacob gave up. The kid was an enigma. He couldn't pin anything on him.

"Here," Credence whispered from ahead. He pushed open a door that was more charcoal than wood, and Jacob blinked as a faint, white glow illuminated the path behind him.

There was no light in the windows.

Staggering closer, he peered over Credence's shoulder and squinted. The building was small, enough to hold perhaps seventy people without cramming. The benches, the hymnals, the organ, and anything representing a religious service was gone. Ash and bone had caked into the ground over time. The only modern anomaly in the room was so out of place that the scarred walls seemed to loom above them like a poised Obscurus.

Twin chairs rested back to back, lashed together at the legs. Iron chains entwined the occupants, looping around the throat of the dark-haired prisoner.

Credence's eyes flickered and his jaw worked soundlessly. Jacob himself looked between the chairs and the wizard encircling them, and blinked three times just to be sure.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

There were two Grindehwauds in the room.

Jacob instantly recognized the dark wizard. Poised, preying, pacing methodically with a silver-tipped wand balanced between his fingers. He paused behind his twin, in front of the bowed, tousled blond head that _had_ to be Newt, and spoke in a low tone.

"Which one is the real Grindehwaud?" Jacob hissed. He cringed in pity for the second prisoner. Flaking dry blood gave the man's face a ghoulish quality. He had neither coat nor shoes, nor suitcoat even, and the recent rain had been abominable. His clothing was as worn and cheerless as their wearer.

"Credence?" Jacob whispered, jolting the boy so thoroughly that he gave a full body flinch and melted against the shadowed wall. Jacob wondered if this would have been Newt had the kid been raised among Muggles for most of his life.

Probably not. Newt would never have survived.

"Who is he?" Jacob mouthed, pointing down at the bound wizard.

Credence's breath hitched. "I don't know," he said so softly that Jacob had to cup both ears. "I – I thought he was - but how – how can….?"

Giving a short, frantic "Sh!" Jacob pressed himself harder against the wall, breathing in rapid, indistinguishable pants as Grindehwaud glanced at the entrance. ' _Don't breathe, don't think, don't you dare twitch!'_ he tried to say with his eyes.

The boy was jumpy, but he had smarts. Credence didn't even shiver as dark eyes raked their hiding place. The moment Grindehwaud turned his back to them once more, Jacob slid into a crouch. His back throbbed in relief.

"You still haven't explained your intentions here, Mister Scamander," Grindehwaud said faintly. Jacob leaned forward, straining to hear. "Let's start over."

The civility of the dark wizard's voice was better associated with a chat over coffee. Jacob wet his lips, remembering the intrusion into his apartment, and raised his fingers to his ears. He'd sooner deafen himself than fall for _that trick_ again.

"You were going to tell me what you were doing in America," Grindehwaud continued in the same even tone. He resumed the relaxed pacing of a mongoose cornering a garter snake. "What could Dumbledore possibly want with a few unmemorable creatures? Why did he _really_ send you here? Don't tell me it was Theseus who put you up to this. We know all about your tricks, Mister Scamander."

An unintelligible mumble followed. Jacob closed his eyes. At least the kid was still talking.

Tilting his head, Grindehwaud leaned his weight on his right foot and casually squeezed his captive's wrist.

Credence flung himself down outside the doorway, dragging Jacob with him, pinning down the larger man as a hoarse yelp rattled in the empty church.

"Leggo!" Jacob hissed, rolling to his hands and knees. If he had a gun – one bullet – one brick even to slam into that conniving, black-eyed skull –

"You can't!" Credence pleaded, his fingers digging into his hair as he crouched.

It wasn't the boy's fright that prevented Jacob from flinging himself back into the charred building. His knees locked of their own accord and he collapsed soundlessly, cursing his helplessness.

"He – He'll kill us," Credence whispered. "He's p-powerful. You can't go inside!"

If he'd been a general, Jacob would've have cuffed the boy for his cowardice and shoved him back into position. If he'd been a doctor, he'd have shaken him and challenged his manhood, 'cause men were butchered on every side and no one had time to fall apart.

But he wasn't a soldier. Not anymore. And some kids like Credence and Claude didn't deserve another beating.

Shooting air past his teeth, Jacob rolled to his knees and crawled to the shivering boy. "Hey. Hey, listen. C'mon, put your head up."

He'd said this before. To Stephen. Poor kid managed to lock eyes with him for thirty seconds, before the shards in his belly ruptured an artery and he bled out under Jacob's hands.

He'd been just as scared.

"Credence, it's okay," Jacob whispered. Words he wished he could've said long ago. "You don't have to do anything. I'll go get him. Just stay down."

A few more seconds hidden in the trench, and Stephen might have walked home.

Jacob never made the same mistake twice.

"K-kay," Credence stuttered with the obedience that was whipped into many unfortunate children. He lowered his eyes, relief offbalancing the shoulders that cringed under guilt, and Jacob felt like a fool.

He was injured, unbalanced and still grieving over Bill, and here he was hunting a wizard, trying to save two kids and yet another stranger, and tracking down a suitcase full of exotic pets. And they said the army prepared you for everything.

At least Jacob knew how to do one thing.

He soldiered on.

Back to the doorway he crept. He crouched, straining to listen, as the dark wizard released his grip on Newt's curls and let the bruised head dip. Jacob's lungs burned and his teeth clamped into his tongue.

"I'll let you think about it," Grindehwaud said.

"You don't need him," the lookalike wizard urged. "He's untrained. He can't even –"

"He means something to Albus Dumbledore, and that gives him credence," Grindehwaud stated. "If he's powerless, then he's still collateral. We'll see how MACUSA reacts when the Muggles find you tomorrow morning."

"Muggles?" the other wizard repeated.

"Ah, that's right," Grindehwaud said, tapping a finger against his temple. "American expressions. Let me make this simple for you, Mister Graves. Three hours from now a magical novelty is going to split this town. I don't mean metaphorical. You think the Obscurial are extinct? I know how to unleash one. And when I'm through with the good citizens of New York – the No-Maj's, in your terms – who will they have to blame?"

He waved his arms grandly at the sootened husk of the church. "Wizards, Mister Graves. One Muggle walks through that door and your chains will fall free. You'll be able to make it; it takes them a while to get organized. But your friend here? They'll need someone to blame for the destruction, and who better than the menace in the blue coat?"

"So it's my life or his," Graves ascertained.

"No," Grindehwaud corrected with a flaring point of his right hand. "The real ending is where you run… or they hang you both." He shrugged in mock pity. "It's war, Mister Graves. You can't save everyone."

In the harsh silence, Jacob could hear the skitter of cockroaches on the walls. Dawn would soon drive them into the shadows.

He was running out of time.

"There is one alternative," Grindehwaud contemplated, swiveling deliberately on one heel. Methodically he approached Newt and crouched in front of the Brit. Like the serpent's coaxing on the day Jacob nearly betrayed his friend, the dark wizard's voice was soothingly gentle. "Dumbledore was a friend to me once. He taught me something. Mercy."

"The only mercy you know is the killing curse," Graves said harshly.

"I know what it's like to lose a friend," Grindehwaud continued in the same hushed tone. "The last thing I want is to give Albus what's left of his favorite student. I'm going to give you another chance, Newt. You can come with me now. You can leave this building and never be hurt by Muggles again. We'll talk with Dumbledore together. He'll listen."

Rasping breaths filled the silence, before Newt's shaken voice shredded the hypnosis left by the serpent's tongue. "I'll never be one of your fanatics."

Sighing, Grindehwaud straightened, looking down piteously at the bound wizard. "Suit yourself, Mister Scamander. In three hours this sepulcher will be full of muggles. The wizarding world will be exposed and you'll be the only one they have to blame. You can take my side or you can take my fall, but you'll help me either way."

He turned on his heel, raising his hand in passing, and Graves hissed as the chains clinked and shifted.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts," Grindehwaud called over his shoulder. He was a shadow's length from the main entrance. Jacob squeezed his eyes shut and crossed his fingers.

The scuff of boots crossed the threshold.

Gasping, Jacob raised his head. Twelve seconds he counted, one for each of the dark wizard's strides. Then he threw himself inside.

Crawled was a more apt word, for it was a grueling combination of flailing, flopping, and toddling that brought him to the center of the room. Graves gawked, flabbergasted, wisely silent as Jacob dropped to his knees beside the wizards and seized the chains.

"Where's the lock? Ain't there a lock on these? Gotta be a lock."

"How did you get in here?" Graves whispered. "Why the devil didn't you use the front door?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome for the rescue," Jacob muttered. He gave up on the chain and crouched in front of Newt, brushing filthy curls out of the Brit's face. "Hey, wake up, kid. C'mon, don't lose it on me now."

The Brit sighed, but didn't open his eyes. He'd been smacked around again, by wand or fist Jacob didn't need to know. He'd punch Grindehwaud's face in the next chance he got.

"Is he all right?" Graves asked, straining to look over his shoulder.

Jacob grunted. Sure, expect compassion from the wizard whose identical twin had pulled Newt into this mess in the first place.

"Tell me your name." Graves changed tactics. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"Buddy, you with me?" Jacob urged, bracing Newt's drooping head in one hand while yanking on the chain with the other. "I didn't save you from Ol' Mary Lou for Grindehwaud to finish the job."

There was a terse sigh from Graves. "It's _Grindelwald_ ," he corrected. "How did you know where to find us? Who else knows we're here?"

Jacob didn't even hear him. He exhaled raggedly as hazel eyes cracked open and Newt lisped, "J'cob?"

"Yeah, it's me," Jacob said. If there'd been any chains of fear clinching around his heart, they slithered into the dark as he grinned.

"Fire'scape fell on you," Newt remembered uncertainly.

"Yeah, well it takes a lot more than that to kill me," Jacob said. "I work in a canning factory, remember?"

Apparently the Brit didn't get the joke. He wriggled slightly, frowned at the chains, and peered at Jacob expectantly.

Just like that the big brother feeling was back. Zealously Jacob followed the chain around the two wizards, seeking the padlock. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of here," he promised Claude – okay, _Newt_. "How bad are you hurt? Think you can walk?"

"M'fine," Newt mumbled, blinking sluggishly. "J'st a scratch."

"Boy, you sure know how to underplay everything," Jacob muttered. He searched the chain's length, frustrated to find it seamless. "How am I supposed to get this off?"

"Try walking through the front door," Graves intoned.

"Jacob, who else is with you?" Newt murmured.

Stunned, Jacob glanced over his shoulder. He hadn't even heard Credence's shuffling trudge. The teenager stopped, rubbing his arm, deliberately avoiding Graves' eyes as he glanced between the floor and Newt's left shoulder.

The Brit had drawn out a crippled starling after all. Somehow Jacob wasn't surprised. Beast or not, every hurting creature knew they could trust Newt.

"He's one of Bill's kids," Jacob said offhandedly. "Their mother's gone. He helped me find you."

"How many?" Newt asked. He yelped as one tug jostled his arm, and Jacob hastily released the chains.

"Uh… he's got two siblings," Jacob said quietly.

"The Barebone family?" Hazel locked onto Jacob, and he saw nothing of the fear he expected. Any rabbit should be scared of the lioness's cubs.

Jacob paused, head tilted in awe. "How'd you know?"

"Does it matter?" Graves interrupted. "A few hours and he'll be a target, the same as the rest of us. If either of you would listen for one moment, you'd take my word and reenter through the front doorway. Any No-Maj can trigger the wards."

"He's not a No-Maj," Newt whispered.

"Huh?" Baffled, Jacob leaned in closer.

"He's magic." Newt continued to look over his shoulder, neck tilted just enough that he could see Credence out of the corner of his eye. Jacob glanced rapidly between them.

"You mean I'm the only Non-Magical in the room?" That seemed unfair.

"The boy?" Graves said doubtfully. "What makes you think he's a wizard?"

"Because I've seen someone like him before." Newt turned his head further, the strain reflecting in his eyes, and Credence swallowed.

Jacob wasn't a good judge of people, but he knew what trust looked like. The same broken faith he'd seen in a blue-coated Brit shone despairingly in the coal-dark eyes of a boy who wavered, alone.

Maybe it was that glimpse of trust that made him believe he wasn't going to be pummeled into tiny pieces as air _whumped_ into his ears and the floor crunched under the force of a thousand charcoal whips. Tempest crackled in shades of red, and Jacob realized this was probably the last thing the martyrs of the church saw before fire consumed their sight.

And he realized Grindelwald wouldn't have to draw the No-Maj's to the church after all.

The monster had already found them.


	14. Meeting The Children

**Whoo-Hoo! Wonderful news, I finally finished writing this story!** **Four more installments to the conclusion, my patient followers! Just in time for the upcoming new installment to Fantastic Beasts this year...**

* * *

When a bomb exploded, soldiers didn't gawk and stare and try to predict where the next one would hit. They _moved_. Instinctively Jacob flung himself over Newt, covering the battered head as the shriek of the snow-imprisoned Obscurus amplified into a hurricane of ash and fangs. It filled the church, pinioning three feeble mortals, and struck with the speed of a viper and a locomotive's force.

"Jacob, no! Go!" Jacob heard Newt holler, before the implosion wrecked his hearing and he found himself flat on his back, gaping breathlessly as the steeple was shattered. The vortex whooshed to surround Grindelwald's captives, black winds drumming the floor. Bits of silver chain pelted the walls like gleaming bullets. Blue flurried as Newt was hurled to the ground. He jounced with a bone rattling _thud_ and curled onto his side, gripping his broken arm. Seconds later Graves spun into a summersault and fell back onto his rear, gaping with the indignity of a teacher who had found a tack on his chair.

The hurricane took form, snarling in the stunned wizard's face, before it shrank into itself and evaporated, revealing a hunched, terrified Credence.

"You're the Obscurus," Graves said between gasps.

One reedy shoulder ducked, and Credence plucked at his tattered shoelaces. Groaning, Jacob picked himself up for the countless time in twenty-four hours and hobbled over to Newt.

"Hey. Hey," Jacob crooned, rolling the Brit onto the hip that hadn't been dislocated by New York's fine citizens. "Talk to me, Newt. Where're you hurting?"

With the wide-eyed fright of a fawn that was too tired to run any longer, Newt clutched his arm to his chest and shook his head. "Didn't damage me. Don't hurt him."

"Hurt _him?"_ Graves said dryly.

Twitching violently, Credence garnered the courage to raise his eyes. "Are you going to kill me now?"

"Kill – no!" Jacob said incredulously. "No, nobody's gonna die, all right?"

Graves' jaw tightened. Exhaling ponderously, he asked, "Is that what I would have done if I was _him_?"

Credence flinched, mumbling, "I don't know."

Graves hummed a note, nodded, and rolled gracelessly to his feet. He limped over to Credence and held out his hand. "I'm not going to harm you, Credence – it is Credence, isn't it?"

Warily the boy shuffled backwards. Wordlessly Graves let him be, turning to help Jacob wrestle Newt to his feet.

"I got him," Jacob insisted, tugging the Brit's good arm over his shoulder.

"He's splinched," Graves warned just before Newt hissed. Quietly Graves uttered a curse. He glided between them and eased Newt's arm down, guiding Jacob's hands to support him under the armpit. Already lost to the world, Newt sank against Jacob in that kicked puppy manner that made him think _Claude_ and _suitcase_ and _get the stupid kid back in bed where he belongs_.

"We need to get out of this building," Graves said. "One of MACUSA's aurors will see him to a hospital."

"No way, no hospitals," Jacob objected. "They're already beaten him enough."

"A _magic_ hospital," Graves enunciated, closing his eyes. "Never mind. I don't know how much influence Grindelwald has taken in my absence. It'll be a pain to convince the aurors without my identification, never mind with a No-Maj _and_ Theseus' brother in tow."

He glanced over to Credence and his eyes softened. "Whatever _he_ did to you, please understand that it wasn't me at the time. I'm sorry."

Breath hitching, Credence kicked out one foot. Achingly the words were formed. "You're not…. You're different," he croaked.

Graves opened his mouth to say more, then jolted warily. The flinch of a hawk before the eagle pounced. "We need to leave."

Taking his place on the other side of Newt, he led them to the side entrance. Searching the alley, he waved for Credence to proceed and glanced ruefully at Jacob. "Next time, use the front door."

Credence tilted his head, scared and confused, yet still following a step behind. The kid was either brave or senseless – or he really was a wizard. Stupid knuckleheads never knew when to run.

"Do you know the area?" Graves asked softly.

Gnawing his lip, Credence dragged one shoe over the other. "I know a safe place."

Graves waited silently, and Jacob anticipated a serpent's strike. After a minute of Credence's quivering, the wizard merely nodded.

"I trust you, Credence."

* * *

"Credence!" Modesty shrieked and flung her arms around her brother, catching him before he could cross the threshold. Trembling, the girl buried her face in his jacket. "I thought you'd never come back."

The corner of Grave's mouth twitched as he slipped past them, squinting in the dim candlelight. Splintering furniture, broken windows, peeling wallpaper – there wasn't much to look at. Great and pompous auror that he was, he glanced over the dwelling with as much interest as the president would lavish over Jacob's apartment. He tilted his head at the soft cough in the corner and moved aside as Jacob guided a tottering Newt across the doorjam.

"Who are they?" Modesty asked, staring at Newt's filthy blue coat. Her mouth dropped open. "Is that him? Is that the witch?"

"Wizard," Graves corrected from the darkest angle of the room. He looked over his shoulder, as though surprised that he had bothered to correct a No-Maj in the first place, and then bent to speak to the young invalid. "There's nothing to fear. I'm a doctor," he said, wrapping his hand gently around Chastity's wrist.

Modesty gripped her brother's arm. "Why is he here? He left Chastity in the gutter!"

"It wasn't him!" Credence hissed. "I'll explain later."

Shuffling past the two, Jacob lowered Newt into the only stable-looking chair and unbuttoned the Brit's coat. The left sleeve was mangled and caked with rust. Newt groaned as he tugged it free.

"Should've been stitched," Jacob said, tugging the Brit's shirt sleeve away from the mark. "Did the Grindel-guy fix this, too?"

The bleeding had stopped, and the gash didn't look as deep as it did when Jacob first saw it that night in the pouring rain, but it was still angry and swollen and definitely warranted a nasty scar.

"Not s'bad as it looks," Newt said, crooking his right arm across his ribs. "S'all superfluous."

"Uh-huh," Jacob said, raising both eyebrows as he pulled a kerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around the wound. "Let me play doctor this round, huh?" Stupid kid really did think he was invincible.

"Do you need assistance?" Graves inquired.

Jacob looked over his shoulder, astonished to see Chastity sitting up against the headboard, lightly coughing but aware.

"She says you gave her medicine," Graves said. He uncorked the empty vial and sniffed it. "Where did you find this?"

"The kid's case," Jacob said automatically. "I mean Newt – it was in his suitcase." Along with brilliant, impossible creatures, the likes of whom might be starving without their caretaker. He felt Newt's flinch and knew the Brit was aware of the passage of time.

"Dougal's there, right?" Jacob reassured him. "He'll look after them."

"Where is this case?" Graves asked.

"Ran off – I mean, we lost it when Grindelwald found us," Jacob hastily amended. He rummaged in his pockets, digging out lint and crumbs and a five-pound note he'd forgotten about, and pulled out the second vial the Demiguise had pressed on him. "This any help?"

Taking the vial, Graves held it to the lamplight and then uncapped it, taking a measured swallow. "Skele-grow," he said, wincing as he tossed it back to Jacob. "Give him the rest. If nothing else, it'll help him stand."

Indeed, the wizard's voice seemed stronger, and the strain left his face as he set both feet comfortably on the floor.

"Skelgrow, huh?" Jacob muttered. "Guess it's what you needed, huh? Dougal always knows."

Newt crinkled his nose. "Hate it," he said fiercely, gagging after the first swallow. "Might be sick after this."

"No, he won't," Graves interjected calmly. "I'll escort you to MACUSA headquarters once he can walk. I know someone who can identify Grindelwald. We'll contact Mister Scamander's brother once we're inside."

Newt grimaced again.

"Brother?" Jacob said faintly.

"Theseus," Newt mumbled. He sounded less like he was dying and more like he wanted an early burial. "I was going to tell him _after_ I left America."

"You were attacked by an impostor using my personage: that makes you my responsibility," Graves said. "I won't risk a war with Britain because somebody pummeled a war hero's kid brother."

 _I knew he had to be the little brother,_ Jacob thought. He chuckled as Newt swirled the dregs of the Skele-grow, his lower lip jutting out in a definite pout.

"Finish it," Graves said piteously.

Stubborn hazel eyes said _'make me'_. Newt hunkered down, effectively hiding the slide of his wrist as he tucked the vial into Jacob's hand.

"You need it too," he murmured.

"Uh, not sure it would agree with me," Jacob argued, pushing it back against Newt's palm. "Come on - doctor's orders."

His concern earned him a sour-faced blanch.

"Where's your mother?" Graves asked, turning his attention to the children. "Is there anyone looking after you?"

"Mother was arrested last week," Credence said, his voice catching as he rubbed his arm. "I can take care of my sisters."

"You're an Obscurus, Credence," Graves said. "You have uncontrolled magic. You've survived far beyond the expectancy for a child with your power, but until you can understand yourself you're only endangering them."

"He's not dangerous!" Modesty exclaimed, darting between the wizard and her brother. Small and frail, like a wistful dandelion challenging a coyote, she lifted her chin with the most obstinate expression that Jacob had seen since a bandaged Claude tried to retrieve his case. "He's our brother!"

Graves leaned back, arms folded loosely, appraising them both. "You already knew." Bending down, he looked into those fierce grey eyes and the corner of his mouth twitched again. "You're not afraid of anything, are you?"

"I can help you stop Grindelwald," Credence said haltingly. There was hope in his eyes. A longing to be useful.

Straightening, Graves shook his head. "No. It's too dangerous."

"I'm not afraid." The cringe vanished from Credence's shoulders as he insisted, "I can level buildings. He can't hurt me."

"Credence, hush!" Modesty exclaimed.

Raising one hand, Graves shook his head once more. "I won't be responsible for the death of a child. Stay here and protect your sisters. I'll return once Grindelwald is in custody."

Sulkily Credence looked away. As soon as Graves' back was turned he tugged his sister towards Chastity's bed.

"C'mon. They're not coming back," he whispered.

Jacob wet his lips, petrified by piercing grey eyes that stabbed between Grave's shoulders. "Hey, shouldn't we at least help – "

"There's a portkey to Theseus' office in my case," Newt said, extraordinarily limber as he pulled on his coat. "Only Dougal's probably got it now. No saying where he's off to."

Skele-grow, huh? Swishing the remnants of the dubiously oily sludge, Jacob shrugged and tipped it down his throat. He hacked, thumping a fist against his chest.

"Well, it's not pumpkin juice," Newt said without apology.

Yup, Jacob had definitely preferred it when the kid was Claude. He didn't miss the bedpans, but he'd felt more purpose when he was looking after somebody. This crazy shenanigan of following a couple lofty wizards, who looked at him like he was the freak when he couldn't understand what the heck was a 'portkey,' was exactly the reason why he'd hated the factory in the first place. People always talked down to you just 'cause you had the lamest job in America.

Well, this "Inferior No-Maj" had saved the great war hero Theseus Salamander's brother, Jacob thought pompously. He might be ignorant, but he wasn't an idiot.

"Who's Dougal?" Graves asked guardedly.

"Long story." Newt spun in an awkward circle, trying to wriggle his splinched arm into the flayed sleeve of his coat. Jacob watched for three turns until he sighed, set aside his grievances, and tugged the blue fabric gingerly around the Brit's shoulders. Drawing the flaps closed, Newt gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, probably as close to a 'thank you' as he could manage.

"Anytime," Jacob mumbled.

"I know someone in MACUSA who would know Grindelwald by sight," Graves exclaimed, dark eyes gleaming as he clapped his hands together. "Or rather, by mind perhaps. Mister Scamander, it is my duty to bring you to MACUSA on the basis of a faulty wand permit – "

"We're talking about beating Grindelwald and now you're gonna arrest him?" Jacob interjected.

"And you," Graves said, pointing avidly in Jacob's direction, "Need to be obliviated."

"Obliviated?" Jacob echoed incredulously.

"As a No-Maj exposed to magic, you're a threat to the wizarding world," Graves said, pacing so avidly that the floorboards crackled. "Scamander initiated the contact, therefore he must be interrogated in order to comprehend how deeply he has collaborated with Grindelwald's plans."

"But Grindelwald's the bad guy!" Jacob argued. Was this version of Graves just as deceitful as the dark wizard himself?

"Therefore, it is my responsibility to bring you both to MACUSA headquarters," Graves announced conclusively. "Mister Scamander struggled, and I apprehended him. Hence the matter that I look like a horse-trodden scullery rag. No wand, no identification – we'll have to move quickly before they raise questions."

"They'll never let you in like that," Newt said, hintingly brushing a finger down his jaw.

"Mm, I wouldn't expect so," Graves intoned, irritably rubbing the scruff on his cheeks. "We'll be apparating him without a wand," he warned, inclining his head in Jacob's direction. "Could be messy."

"I have a wand!" Modesty piped in, eliciting an explosive squeak from her brother.

"Modesty, where did you get – "

"Oh, do hush, Credence!" Running to her drab coat, Modesty poked into the lining and drew out a thin reed, dowdy in its simplicity with strange markings in the paddle-shaped handle.

"Here!" she said, thrusting it at Jacob. "Promise that you'll come back for us. You won't lie," she added, wrinkling her nose at Graves.

"I… uh… Of course," Jacob said, taking the wand cautiously and feeling a bit better when the point wasn't aimed in his direction. Uncertainly he handed it off. "Mister Graves?"

"Thank you, Modesty," the wizard said, accepting the wand and fingering it methodically. "And where would a young lady like yourself acquire this?"

"Not gonna tell," Modesty said, folding her arms pertly and tilting her chin.

"Can we talk about this?" Credence said sullenly.

"I will come back for you, Modesty," Graves said, crouching beside the girl and meeting her vengeful stare. He tapped the wand in his palm and vowed, "When I do, I'll teach you how to use this."

"Credence, too," Modesty demanded.

"Credence's magic will be different," Graves said ruefully, "But yes. Credence, too. And Chastity, if she has the gift."

Modesty tucked her arms in tighter. "Mother can't find us."

Quirking a thin smile, Graves assured, "Your mother will never come near you again."

He rose in a sweep of dusty black robes and waved for Jacob and Newt to follow him to the door. "We'll have five minutes clemency inside the Wands Permit Office. Try to look properly accosted, Mister Scamander. And Jacob? Try not to behave like a tourist."

Just like that he was the "Ignorant No-Maj" again. But Newt was waiting for him outside the door like a scruffy puppy who wouldn't budge until he knew Jacob was coming, and the thought brought him some cheer. Besides, what kind of No-Maj had the opportunity to see the magical headquarters of America?

Magic supremacy aside, it had to be worth it.


	15. The Last Shadow

Apparation just didn't get easier with experience, Jacob decided. The flash in which the Barebone hovel sheared into a table-lined office jarred his aching bones and quite nearly made Newt an addition to a nearby desk. Literally.

"Really?" Newt growled, ripping his right sleeve free from the wooden panel it had mysteriously bonded with.

Graves dangled Modesty's wand and gave a hapless shrug. "It's an ancient model."

Papers fluttered behind them and Jacob whirled around, meeting crystalline eyes that seemed as startled as he.

"Mister Graves!" the woman gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth. "You brought a No-Maj!"

"Miss Goldstein," the wizard said urgently, holding out one hand to placate her as her horrified gaze swept over his beggar's garb. "Look into my memories, and do it quickly. Did he allow you to read his mind?"

What followed next, Jacob couldn't explain. Emotions whipped through gorgeous blue, and he couldn't name them all. Dismay, fear, hurt, and courage filtered through, finally concluding with something like relief mixed with guilt like a kid felt when his mom walked into the room and saw that her favorite vase had shattered over her son's head. (Not that Jacob had too much personal experience with disappointing his parents – besides, that was a long time ago.)

"What do you want me to do, Mister Graves?" Miss Goldstein said. In one unsteady exhale she was incredibly calm. Jacob wondered if she'd been a nurse on the warfront. Maybe she'd tended him once 'cause if he'd ever seen an angel….

He didn't realize he was staring until Miss Goldstein giggled and he noticed Graves eyeing him with a particular form of resignation.

"Miss Goldstein can read minds," Graves stated.

Mouth dropping, Jacob fumbled. "I, uh… I mean…."

"Aw, don't be so abashed, honey," Miss Goldstein said, crooking her fingers under her chin. "I've never been called an angel before. And don't call me Miss Goldstein all the time. Call me Queenie."

"Miss Goldstein, my wand," Graves reminded.

"Right in a jiffy, Mister Graves," Queenie said, darting to one of the desks further down the row. "Tina keeps the licensing records. I know how to bypass her wards."

Jacob took a moment to observe the room. It looked the same as any other office - dingy and partitioned with cabinets, desks and typwriters - but Queenie was the only living worker among hundreds of typewriters that clicked on their own. Mystified, Jacob peered at the words miraculously appearing on one paper.

"This would fix all the White House problems," Jacob mused. He laughed as the paper scrolled free, folded itself into a mouse, and was promptly shredded by another of its kind. "Mice! They're everywhere!"

He looked up, pointing to the squabble of paper rodents, and trailed off when he realized he was the only one amused. Right. No-Maj tourist. Straightening, Jacob cleared his throat and stuck his hands in his pockets. Graves rolled his eyes.

"Queenie, what could you possibly want in my office?" The weary tone accompanied brisk, tripsy heel-clips, which squeaked against the floor as the speaker halted. The brunette paused, pulling off her cloche hat as she edged forward. "….Mister Graves?"

"Tina, this is the real Percival," Queenie said, pointing a wand daintily at Graves. "Grindelwald breached our security months ago."

"What?" Three running strides had Tina shoving past Newt with a fleeting apology. "Grindelwald's here? When did this happen? How did you find out?"

"Well, _he_ orchestrated everything," Queenie said. She stared admiringly, and Jacob glanced over his shoulder.

"What, me?" he squeaked.

"Who else risked prison to help a total stranger," Queenie said. Pain jolted her eyes and she raised a hand to her chest. "Claude – it's a nice name. Oh, but you lost your bakery for it. You bake?"

Feebly Jacob nodded. Newt's right shoulder dipped.

"And Bill… I'm so sorry," Queenie whispered. "He was a good man."

"Yeah… uh… the best," Jacob said, coughing when his voice scratched.

"Miss Goldstein, would you mind?" Graves said, waving for Tina to come forward. "Grindelwald has my wand. You have the records, I presume, or has your security been revoked?"

"Not that far," Tina grumbled as she yanked open a file cabinet. "So who's the guy in the suit?"

"Oh, this is Jacob," Queenie introduced, beaming as she glanced his way. "Why darling, you're a true hero, aren't you? Taking on Grindelwald personally – and you conkered him with nothing but a medicine bottle, while all these years London couldn't keep him under control. Are all No-Maj's so brilliant and resourceful?"

"No-Maj?" Tina countered, popping her head above the desk.

"Look, I just do what needs to be done," Jacob chuckled, certain he was blazing from ear to toe. What a gal. Five minutes in her company and he felt like he could bear to live around witches after all.

"His memories," Graves said shortly, tapping a finger against his temple and drawing it against his thumb.

Queenie's eyes dropped. "Oh. Then you'll obliviate him afterwards." Hesitating, she took a deep breath and commented, "Not the same as the Barebone children, huh?"

"Miss Goldstein, I told you not to read my mind," Graves said curtly.

"Sorry, Mister Graves. You're not usually this open with me," Queenie responded. She fingered the tip of her wand, watching her sister rove her wand over an official looking document.

"You won't have far to go, Mister Graves," Tina said, as dark eyes latched onto the ceiling overhead. "He just reached the stairwell."

* * *

"Floo," Tina said, snatching up the papers and flicking out a drab, unadorned wand. "Mister Graves, who's the other guy?"

"Theseus Scamander's brother," Graves said shortly, dubiously waving Modesty's wand at the lights. His left eyebrow shot up as the bulbs dimmed to a flickering glow. "He's trustworthy."

"Sure hope so," Tina said. She beckoned urgently, leading them to the far end of the hall. "Floo network's this way, up two flights of stairs."

"We're apparition-proof," Queenie commented. "How'd you make it inside?"

Graves gripped the wand shaft between two fingers, squinting at the unremarkable wood. "Hardly a child's toy."

 _"Miss Goldstein?"_ a voice earily like Graves' called from down the corridor.

Glancing over her shoulder, Queenie gasped softly and balked. "I can't read him," she whispered. "I could delay him….."

"Don't be an idiot," Tina said, snatching up the blond witch's hand and dragging her along. "He'd kill you before you could draw your wand."

"On sight," Graves corrected. He paused to grab a lagging Newt by the arm. "No heroics, Scamander."

"How much further?" Newt interjected in a strained voice.

Jacob saw it without anything needing to be said. Dragging left leg. Sweaty brow and wretched gaze fixated on scuffled shoes. Skele-grow meant skeleton, right? Maybe it had fixed the bones, but what did that say for the tendons that had been wrenched when the No-Maj's first mangled the kid's leg?

"Hey, we gotta stop," Jacob said, tapping Queenie's arm. "He's – "

Queenie swung around and her eyes lanced. "Oh honey, there's no way you can make the stairs!"

"What choice do we have?" a frazzled Graves debated.

Lights crackled behind them, overheating and smashing one by one. Jacob could barely make out a dark shape lurking towards them. One line of desks flared in a combustion of cindering paper, then another. Paper mice scattered with fearful squeals.

Tina and Queenie locked eyes.

"Of course," Queenie said briskly. She snatched up the shorter witch in a brief, desperate hug. "Don't let him catch you." Swiveling in the most perfect about-face, she yanked open a door and skittered up the first steps. "Mister Graves, follow me."

"We'll take cover," Tina said, prodding Newt away from the stairwell.

"Once London is notified, MACUSA will automatically enforce emergency procedures," Graves said. "The president will listen to me. Give us ten minutes." Grimly he folded Modesty's wand into Newt's hand. "Do _not_ apprehend him."

The door slammed behind him, and Jacob heard more bolts slide into place than a steel barred dome in a bank.

"Come on!" Tina hissed.

"You're gonna hate this, but…." With no further apology Jacob swung into Newt, slinging him over his shoulder. Grunting, he spewed an oath, swearing that after this he would run to work every day until evading dark wizards seemed as easy as rolling pie dough.

"I can walk!" Newt gasped out.

"Yeah, but run?" Too winded for banter, Jacob swiveled left as Tina ducked into another room. The hallway was almost dark behind them. Newt cursed between his teeth.

"Left!"

Unthinkingly Jacob swerved. A blue bolt struck a cabinet just to the side. Paper sifted in crumbling, blackened threads.

"Left again!" Newt hissed. He flailed, off-balancing Jacob as he stretched out an arm. " _Protego_."

Light flashed behind them and bounced, striking a cloister of fleeing mice. Didn't matter if they were paper – their final shrieks were kinda pitiful.

Another spell jostled the shield and Newt whimpered. The acrid stench of charred wool stung Jacob's nostrils. "Did he hit you?"

"M'fine. Hurry," Newt implored.

There wasn't anywhere left to _run_. Swerving into the room Tina had entered, Jacob scanned the darkness briefly and then flung himself and Newt behind the nearest solid object. It scooted, much to his dismay, and he heard Tina's anxious shush. Finally his eyes adjusted enough to make out yet another cluttered office space. There was one large table in the room, surrounded by rigid wooden chairs. Possibly the worst place they could've chosen to hide.

Spotless black shoes strode ponderously over the threshold. Tina lowered her arm, wrist poised, taking shallow breaths. Newt clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, and when that itself seemed to make too much noise, stopped breathing altogether. Jacob closed his eyes and prayed.

"You can come out now, Mister Scamander," Grindelwald coaxed. The benevolence in his voice so keenly mimicked Graves' response to the Barebone children that Jacob almost thought the ten minutes was up and they had been rescued.

Deliberate footsteps told him that luck nothing more than a bit of timely inventiveness limited to magical suitcases and children's wands.

Dark shoes paused two feet from Jacob's chair. He shuddered, counting the seconds, and stopped breathing altogether as Grindelwald stooped. A wand flickered inches from Jacob's nose.

"Get up," Grindelwald commanded softly.

" _Relashio!_ " Tina shouted, afoot and running before Grindelwald could spin around. The spell flashed around him like thousands of blue lightning bugs. Irritably Grindelwald swung his wand in a high arc. Jacob didn't hear the name of the spell that collided against a file cabinet and drilled a smoking hole into the wall behind it. Tina shrieked, awkwardly summersaulting and retaliating with a red, sparking slash that zipped harmlessly over Grindelwald's shoulder.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " Newt huffed, spinning to the right so that the next spell veered safely away from Jacob's position.

He'd been trapped in the field with an empty gun before. Heck, he'd even cowered with a full load once in the earliest days of the war, back when he saw people die for the first time and he knew he was one of the guys who drew the bullet.

But after that first mistake he'd never been kept out for lack of a weapon. There were always guns lying around soon enough. And if there weren't any guns….

Stuff like morphine bottles usually did the trick.

Jacob waited till the moment Grindelwald's shoes swiveled in Tina's direction before he jumped to his feet and grabbed the nearest chair. Nothing like the rickety, splintering wicker in Newt's suitcase – this was polished, solid oak. He heaved it over his shoulder, anticipating the satisfying _crack_ of wood on bone as he aimed for Grindelwald's wand arm –

And found himself plastered against the wall six feet away as something invisible tried to smear him into the woodwork. Grindelwald regarded him passively, swinging back his wand in a snapping, white coil.

"Your kind may have forced us underground," he told Jacob. "But the inspiration of fear begins with a single spell."

Lightning fizzed short of Jacob's nose and he cringed, sweat bathing his face as the heated charge flickered closer to his eye. Grindelwald chuckled. "It's the source of democracy, Mister Kowalski. Someone always has the upper hand."

A flit of bright blue yanked Jacob's attention to the other side of the room. Grindelwald spun around just as a chair soared towards his head, catching it under his wand in a burst of smoking particles. With a snarl Newt barreled out from behind the table, shoving it over end as he shouted, " _Confringo!_ "

Black walnut rumbled and split under the spell, pelting Grindelwald with slivers the size of steak knives. Covering his head, Jacob plopped onto the floor in another jarring reminder that neither he nor Newt had any decent reason to be running around plaguing dark wizards.

The worst of the shards vanished as Grindelwald wordlessly barricaded himself in a fiery shield. The tendrils arched, snapping towards Newt's throat with dragon's teeth, and as the blue wizard ducked and raised the collar of his blue coat, Grindelwald stabbed through the kaleidoscope of flame. Light pummeled into Newt's side and sent him crashing into a chair, over the backing and against the doorway where he struck with a grievous _thud_.

Hissing a sigh, Grindelwald twirled his wand and flicked it, spiraling Tina's wand to his hand. The young witch hadn't stirred since Jacob threw the chair. He hoped… he _prayed_ ….

But who was he kidding? This guy had just bested a witch and a wizard and nothin' was stopping him.

Nothing unless help came soon. And that would come too late for Newt, who was hunkered by the wall, gracelessly trying to pull himself up against the doorpost as his juddering knee gave way.

Like the kid laid out on the street, kicked and broken 'cause a mad woman thought witchery deserved to be beaten down.

Jacob was tired of watching people brutalize their own kind.

"Hey."

Grindelwald paused, one eyebrow soaring as Jacob stepped forward. "I was going to spare him the pain of watching your corpse melt. You keep pushing my hand."

Jacob kept walking.

"Have you ever seen a man electrocuted?" Grindelwald wondered. "Sometimes he survives. Other times the skin sloughs away. External membranes drip like boiling wax. The organs cook in their own bloodflow, but long before consciousness flees you'll feel your hands disintegrate."

Fists shaking, Jacob planted his feet in front of Newt. He braced his shoulders and remembered Claude, the stupid kid with the heart for remarkable animals, who for six days couldn't even lisp his real name.

The kid wasn't going down while Jacob was still standing.

"You're brave for a muggle," Grindelwald acknowledged as he raised his wand. "But you're going to die."

Clenching his fists, Jacob stared down the last enemy commander.


	16. Pandemonium Emporium

Strange how when the time came to die, Jacob didn't think much about the past. He'd seen some guys bawl over sweethearts, kids, people they'd never see again, or accomplishments they'd never fulfill. The bakery entered his mind and faded like a penny in the well. Thoughts of marriage, magic, angels… they weren't any more real than his nightmares and flashbacks, and he didn't mourn the what-if's.

What he saw in his mind's eye was people. Three kids protecting one another in a drafty back room. An old beggar with a niffler dangling in his hand. Mildred walking out to fend on her own. A doctor wavering on three hours of sleep, trying to remember his own instructions about morphine. The twin of a dark wizard accepting the wand of a little girl. Bouncy golden curls and the willingness to stand alone between evil and a total stranger. The fearless leap of a young witch attacking someone with ten times her power. A brave immigrant risking death to protect unnatural creatures from his own kind.

In those scant three seconds as the silver-hilted wand steadied between his eyes, he saw their courage, and he decided it was okay. He was ready to die. Maybe it'd be heroic, or maybe it'd be futile, but in the line of service nobody cared. Protecting the innocent from mankind's heart, one foe at a time – this was where he belonged.

Blue sizzled on the end of Grindelwald's wand, and Jacob held the dark wizard's gaze. He'd finish this as a soldier. Unwavering.

He felt the blow on the back of his knees, and as the ceiling spiraled above him he braced for the implosive pain. His head struck Newt's shin and his left arm smacked a chair with the searing crack of a fractured elbow, yet his heart continue to pound and his skin remained intact.

"Dougal, stop it!" Newt shouted, scrambling over Jacob as the latter gripped his arm and marveled that he was still alive. Swearing, the Brit lunged and wrestled with thin air, before silver fur materialized and bounded from the floor, to Grindelwald's shoulder, to the corner just behind the dark wizard.

"One of your creatures, Mister Scamander?" Grindelwald spat. "I'll finish with him first." He kicked Newt onto his back and raised his wand, elaborately spinning blue from the tip.

Dewy blue eyes studied the wizard methodically. With an expression terrifyingly like a smile it stooped and unlocked two brass clasps.

Newt swallowed.

"Jacob, when I tell you, move very quickly," he rasped.

But there simply wasn't time. Just as skidding, soft leather shoes slid into the entrance and a young man in a posh suit glanced at Newt and swore; just as Graves whipped around the intruder and shouted " _Expelliarmus!_ " only for his wand to fly into Grindelwald's hand; just as Queenie apparated next to her sister and vanished with them both; just as the polished young man dove to catch up Newt –

Just as fire rose from Grindelwald's wand to consume them all, the demiguise cracked open the suitcase.

Thunder shook the room. Cabinets shuddered and books pelted from their shelves. Even before the first creature sprang from the impossible space Jacob was rolling, a surge of adrenaline bringing him to his feet for one last charge. Before Grindelwald could fully realize the threat and vanish, Jacob seized the lapels of the wizard's coat and swung. Cartilage smashed under his knuckles in a burst of mucus and blood.

Rage burned in dark eyes that were slowly turning blue. Flinging aside Tina's wand, Grindelwald slipped a hand into his coat and plucked out a knobbed wand that looked like bone. Greying hair leeched into spikes of blond as Grindelwald shrugged.

"No last words, then," he said in a muffled, congested tone. He lilted the bone wand and stepped towards Jacob.

But the distraction had cost him dearly. A flash of purple and green erupted from the case, bowling Jacob aside as a beak the size of a frying pan clamped around Grindelwald's wrist. Bone _crunched_ and the wand slipped from Grindelwald's lifeless fingers as he shrieked in agony.

Jacob hurdled into the last standing chair as sapphire coils filled the room. He caught one glimpse of Grindelwald tumbling under the mass before the serpent dropped a severed limb and sidewinded, smashing two walls under its enormous girth. Its tail cleared the suitcase just as a golden horn sprang free and with a fierce, trumpeting holler the erumpet bolted from the tight space. The floorboards gave way under its massive feet and Jacob had one glimpse of blond hair before Grindelwald vanished under the hurtling mountain.

Roaring heralded above the sound of tumbling architecture as the nundu sprang forth, following the erumpet's path. Graphorns galloped behind it, just before lightning burst from the case and a screeching Thunderbird launched upward in a dazzling wash of storm. The building's electricity plunged and the cloudburst soaked cindered paperwork.

Slipping and scrabbling, Jacob curled up with his arm over his head. A hippogriff's rear hoof grazed his shoulder as the creature skittered away from a dragon poking its snout out of the case. The dragon spouted smoke, too doused to breathe fire, and clambered from its confines, a clawed wing crashing down over Jacob's head.

He screamed then, surrounded by teeth and claws and hooves and fangs, soaked and bruised and lost in a throng of angry beasts. Grindelwald had hurt their keeper, and now Jacob would be crushed in their retribution.

The wing flared skyward and Jacob heaved for air, tucking into himself as it flapped and zoomed towards his head. He heard the hippogriff squawk indignantly, as fabric slashed and someone swore in pain, before a hand clamped around his wrist and he was hauled out of the dragon's range.

"Run!" Graves barked, shoving Jacob ahead of him. As Jacob dodged the hippogriff Graves spun away from the entrance, lunging for the silver-tipped wand that wavered on the broken floorboards. His fingers brushed the handle just as a graphorn stamped below, and he howled as the wand dipped into the abyss.

"Mister Graves, look out!" Jacob hollered. He stared helplessly as the dragon swerved, hungry eyes honing in on an unrecognized wizard.

Just as curved teeth spread, the air sizzled around Jacob and someone new latched onto his arm. He caught a snatched image of a man in a brown leather coat and fedora grabbing hold of Graves' shoulder and vanishing, before the room whirled into apparation and he found himself kneeling in an unrecognizable room, hurling his guts onto the symbol of an eagle.

"Let me speak with them – let me go down there!" Jacob heard Newt wailing. He'd never heard that kind of tone before, not even when the kid was hurting. "They were protecting me! They're not dangerous! They'll calm down once they see me!"

" _Mister Scamander_ ," a woman enunciated irritably.

Wiping his mouth, Jacob straightened and stared at the huddle of leather-clad wizards and the black-robed queen standing in their midst. The polished Brit he'd seen before stopped mid-inspection of Newt's jaw and strode up to the woman, his boots halting inches from the hem of her elegant dress. He loomed above her, square jaw gritted in barely controlled temper, and she met his eyes coolly. Brave woman.

"Madam President," the man said thinly.

 _Scamander_ … wait, wasn't that like –

Oh. _Oh_.

Hunching, Newt gazed at his older brother, waiting for him to perform the miracle to save his precious creatures. Admiration and trust shone without provocation. Jacob decided he kinda hated Theseus.

"Madam President, the animals below are under the protection of the Ministry of Magic," Theseus said immovably. "My aurors will help you retrieve them. They are not to be harmed. You will be compensated for any damage."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and returned to his brother's side.

"Just needs some dittany," Newt insisted, hissing as Theseus prodded an exceptional bruise on his cheekbone.

"Only you," Theseus intoned. "Why the devil weren't you wearing the coat?"

Agitatedly Newt flapped his sleeves. One singed, one splinched. Theseus shook his head.

"I'm having a word with the tailor."

Jacob lost the rest of the conversation as a chirpy, dark-skinned lady in a white uniform stooped in front of him. "Don't worry, we'll fix this right up," she said, trailing her wand down his broken elbow. Jumping as bone fragments pushed into place, Jacob squeaked and grabbed the offending limb.

"Now, that don't hurt as much as a surgeon and a cast, I'll bet," the witch said, chuckling sympathetically.

"How'd you do that?" Jacob exclaimed, roving his arm uncertainly. His fingers sparked with returning bloodflow, but there was no pain.

The witch laughed. "Hon, you look like you ain't never seen magic 'afore. Here, 'afore you fall over." Flicking her wand, she took the silver cup that materialized and pressed it into Jacob's hand. "Ain't nothin' that will hurt you in there. Just drink it all 'afore it settles."

He'd tried Skele-grow earlier, and that was still plaguing his stomach. He figured Newt had a reason to be turning his nose up at the vial Theseus was pressing at him. But when said older brother grew impatient and held his little brother's nose until Newt was forced to open his mouth and swallow, Jacob took the hint.

He swallowed the cup's contents in three gagging gulps.

"See, that wasn't so bad!" the witch encouraged. "Sit here awhile, and if that don't settle right you just call for me."

To the contrary, Jacob felt unexpectedly warm, as though the bruises were slowly eking from his bones. _No wonder Ol' Bill was angry with wizards_ , he mulled. Many a boy might have survived without amputation if such potions had only been available.

"You're not the only one to say so."

Whirling at the sweet voice, Jacob blushed as he met Queenie's compassionate eyes. She smiled, patted Tina's shoulder as a wizard handed the young witch back her wand, and hurried over to kneel beside Jacob.

"What you did to stop Grindelwald…." Tears sparking her eyes, Queenie snatched up Jacob's hand and squeezed it tightly. "You saved my sister. She's all I have, you know. It took so long to convince the president that Chief Graves was telling the truth…." Dipping her head, she breathed in shakily and bit her lip. When she had enough control to raise her head she whispered, "Thank you."

A different kind of warmth flooded Jacob's chest. For once he wasn't just the thick-headed No-Maj trailing along. He clasped Queenie's hand and gave a feeble shrug. "Anytime."

"We do give to the Muggles," Queenie assured him. "It was a wizard who helped create penicillin. There's more we could show them, but things they can't understand scare them away. Even to people like us, humans are dangerous."

"Yeah," Jacob agreed, remembering how a simple muggle with a morphine bottle took out one of the more dangerous wizards. "I guess we are."

Queenie smiled. "You're a hero," she whispered. Daringly she leaned in and pecked his cheek before skittering back to her sister. Jacob raised a hand to his cheek, wondering if it was possible for contact to brand someone.

Once Queenie was distracted, Jacob found himself… curiously overlooked. Apparently an illegal No-Maj in a crowded wizarding hall wasn't quite as thrilling as each new creature which the aurors apparated upstairs for Theseus' inspection. ( _Theseus'_ inspection, because Jacob had the feeling that even if they were Newt's critters, MACUSA wasn't particularly inclined to give them back to the younger brother.)

Newt fussed over each in turn: shoving a blue, squabbling, fairy-like creature into Theseus' hands; inspecting the pink owl's wings before guiding it onto Queenie's shoulder; stroking Frank's beak and whispering a spell over the gash in the thunderbird's neck; tickling the underbelly of what Jacob _swore_ was an ordinary hedgehog, and smoothing bits of concrete and wood slivers out of its quills; digging a jar of silvery goop out of his tattered coat pocket to spread over an occamy's chipped beak; pestering a nurse to tend the broken wing of a literal, in-the-flesh Pegasus; gravely examining the smallest graphorn before returning the poor, limping beast to its parents (Jacob noted with a sinking heart that one of the young had not returned); shouting at everyone to _"Stop moving, please!"_ when the erumpet began to huff; bandaging the snapped limbs of several weeping bowtruckles; and giving weak, apologetic smiles when several hideous, scorpion-like creatures nearly set fire to the carpeting.

"You realize that your brother is operating in illegal breeding and captivity of magical creatures," the President told Theseus with the coolness of a sheet of black ice. Invisible, uncompromising, and unquestionably lethal.

Theseus stuffed the blue fairy into his hat and squashed it under his coat. "Actually, he has orders. He is to protect and nurture the dwindling species across the world."

"Under whose authority?" the President retorted.

"Mine," Theseus said without qualm.

"Hardly a reliable source," the President answered with a thin, forced smile.

"I know a professor and three ministers in Great Britain who would agree with me," Theseus said. "You can argue your case with the Ministry of Magic once I return with my report."

A wriggling, prodding nose distracted Jacob from the chilling duel. He looked down and grinned, bundling the shivering niffler into his coat. "There you are. Always starting trouble, aren't you?"

"Have you got him?"

Jacob glanced up at Newt's insistent rasp and nodded as the blue wizard peered around his brother's back. A wan smile eased the tension lines in Newt's face. It didn't matter if some big brother was involved or the president of magic was standing over him. _Claude_ was still the wizard under the grime and dust and pain.

"Hate to give you back to him," Jacob admitted to the niffler as it curled into a ball inside his coat. Because that would mean it was all over. Newt would have his creatures back, his overprotective sibling would sweep him back to wherever he was supposed to be, and Jacob would be left in his tiny apartment, just where he started. Alone, in the dreary, magic-less grime of New York's middle class.

Sighing, Jacob untucked the niffler's claws from his jacket and rolled the creature into Newt's hands. The young wizard cupped it gently, examining its scuffed fur and snuffling snout. "You'll be all right," he murmured.

Sensing he was no longer a required accessory to the commotion, Jacob wearily hauled himself to his feet. He watched as giant beasts appeared in the room one by one, trumpeting and howling at the aurors who handled them. Theseus rapped out orders over each creature's transportation and care. Jacob shook his head, marvelling at how extraordinarily, mundanely the situation was being handled. If the New York police department had been involved, there would probably have been a good deal more "shoot on sight" and less negotiation over such hideous, lethal looking monsters.

It was no surprise that one of the pathetic life forms brought to the surface was a mangled, bloodied pulp of something that had once been considerably human. Graves accompanied the body, waving off a young witch who was insistently trying to weave a green, sticky-looking spell around the gash in his temple.

"Percival Graves," the President greeted, no small surprise in her upraised eyebrow.

Looking fairly mollified, Graves gestured for the body to be brought forward. "I believe I've found the culprit behind the no-maj disruptions," he said.

Stepping forward, the President stood with such utter stillness that the only reaction Jacob could discern was the vague widening of her eyes. "Grindelwald himself," the President breathed out.

Jacob squinted at the trampled corpse before squeamishly averting his gaze. There was a slim shock of reddened white hair and scraps of uniform with protruding sticks of bone. Nothing could possibly be recognizable, any more than a handkerchief with unthreaded initials.

"That's a rum way to die," he muttered, pressing a hand over his mouth and turning away.

He stayed out of the way as Graves was forced to sit still while the healing witches fussed over him. Long-worded, grilling questions bombarded the dark-haired wizard from the President and her entourage. A blast-ended skrewt nearly set fire to Newt's hands before Theseus demanded another slew of wizards to control his brother's pets. All through the tumble, Jacob caught whispers of, "What will they do with the No-Maj?"

He brushed sweaty palms against his trousers and tried not to think on that too hard.

"Mister Kowalski."

Startled, Jacob stammered and bolted to his feet, giving an anxious, deferential nod to the president. "Ma'am."

"It appears that the Magical Congress owes you a debt of gratitude," the President said smoothly. "Your interference not only saved two of our own, but also helped eliminate one of the darkest wizards in the history of magic."

"Just... doing what seemed to be right," Jacob mumbled. It all seemed too glamorous; too ethereal. An unemployed, unmemorable No-Maj had earned the personal gratitude of the President of Magic. Sheepishly Jacob shot a hesitant grin at Newt.

The young Brit's eyes were troubled. "President Picquery," he began urgently.

"Naturally, you understand our quandary," the president said to Jacob. "Our very existence in the non-magical world is jeopardized by your awareness of this place."

"I... don't understand," Jacob said.

"Mister Kowalski, our safety is constructed on the oblivious nature of your kind. We are outnumbered and out-maneuvered by the destructive capabilities of ... Muggles," she said carefully, testing what appeared to be a new word. Inclining her head, she added, "As you have seen from the recent effects of your own wars, we are increasingly threatened by the No-Maj's advancement in science and weaponry."

"What's that got to do with me?" Jacob protested. "I mean, you guys could help us now, right? You've got spells and postions and stuff - we wouldn't need any wars with those kinds of advancements? Right?"

He looked back at Newt for confirmation. He didn't like the fear in the kid's eyes.

"Right?" Jacob asked feebly.

"I'm afraid you don't understand," President Picquery said gently. "Peace has been attempted between the Magical and Non-Magical realms in the past. The greed and mistrust of your kind forced us into near-extinction."

"My kind?" Jacob protested. "Wasn't it one of your wizards that nearly blew up an entire church?"

"You fail to understand your own history," President Picquery retorted coolly. "As soon as the No-Maj's learn of the existence of magic, they squash it out. Or did you learn nothing from their treatment of the young wizard you rescued?"

Scuffing his toe into the tile, Jacob dipped his head in acknowledgement. "But we could do better," he insisted. "We could - "

"And if you don't?" the President cut in. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, but this is a chance we cannot take."

Newt lurched to his feet. "You're not going to - !"

Heaving his brother down, Theseus rose and fixed the President with a stalwart look. "Madam President, seeing as it was my brother that was involved... Perhaps I should be the one to - "

"No, don't!" Newt protested, snatching his brother's arm. "Theseus, you can't! It's not his fault that - "

"Wait - what are you gonna do to me?" Jacob demanded, staring aghast at the ring of wizards surrounding him. He searched for Queenie, then Tina, but only received their pitying gazes as the president folded her hands.

"I'm sorry, Mister Kowalski," President Picquery said, "But we cannot allow you to leave with the memory of our existence."

"You - you're gonna kill me?" Jacob whispered.

"Merlin's grey beard, no," Graves interjected. His solemn eyes were kind, as though he was speaking to one of the Barebone children. "What the President is saying is that all memory of magic, and this place, must be removed from your mind."

It took a moment for the implication to sink in. "You mean I won't remember this," Jacob said raggedly. "Any of this. Even..."

He trailed off, noting Newt's clenched jaw and furious, rapid blinking.

"I won't remember anyone?" Jacob said faintly.

"I'm truly sorry," President Picquery said gently. "This is the way it has to be."

"I..." Shuffling his foot, Jacob took one last, lingering sweep of the room: the magnificent animals, the glint of Queenie's golden curls, the colors and contraptions moving without technology, the blue of Newt's ragged coat. He wouldn't remember any of it. Not one spark of magic to cheer him in the dull gloom of a canning factory. Not one image of another, more glamorous world as he trudged back to his dingy apartment. He wouldn't even remember how and why Ol' Bill had been murdered.

Jacob swallowed past the hitch burning in his throat, trying to tell himself that it didn't matter. That the loss of memory would be kinder than wishing for a more exciting life than New York had to offer him. Clearing his throat, he said with forced nonchallance, "Don't I ... get a chance to say goodbye?"

"If you wish," the President said.

"I will finish it," Theseus volunteered. "It will be easier that way." He looked down at his brother meaningfully, offering Newt a hand to stand up. The younger wizard slapped it away.

"I can stand," he mumbled with a glare.

Shambling to his feet, Newt limped forward, his eyes downcast and haunted like the day when Jacob found him lying helplessly on the rug. Funny, for all the kid's fire and independence, he was still so _broken_.

Suddenly Jacob knew he was doing the right thing. Nobody in the non-magical world deserved the chance to beat up another kid.

"Hey, it'll be fine," he told Newt, smiling for the kid's sake. "I've got me a place back there. Won't be missing much."

Furious hazel eyes assaulted him, burning through his lie. Biting his lip, Newt lurched forward and flung his good arm around Jacob's neck. "S'not fair!" he whispered. "You could run. I could apparate you now - they wouldn't - "

"Whoah, Kid," Jacob murmured, patting the young wizard's back and trying not to imagine what it could be like, disappearing with the kid's suitcase, seeing the wonder of the unimaginable day after day, learning the endless borders of magic's infinite universe...

But such a day would never come. The suitcase was destroyed, and Newt's existence was compromised by muggles like Jacob. He would be selfish to run away with his memories.

"It wouldn't really work," Jacob sighed, grabbing a fist of that bright blue fabric, searing it into his mind for as long as it would last. "Besides, I've got that bakery in mind... Wouldn't really have time for magic."

"That's a stupid excuse," Newt hissed.

Forcing himself to let go, Jacob gently pushed the young Brit away. "Yeah, well..." He swallowed hard. "It's the way thing's gotta be."

"Theseus, you can't," Newt growled low as his brother stepped forward. Instinctively the younger brother shifted in front of his brother, shielding Jacob. "There _has_ to be another way. I won't let you!"

Suddenly his eyes rolled up and he fell bonelessly, sinking into Graves' arms as the wizard lowered his wand. Compassionate dark eyes met Theseus' with mute apology. "Not here," Graves said quietly, nodding his head towards the doors.

Jacob heard Queenie's muffled sobs as Theseus nodded and took his arm. "This won't hurt," Theseus promised.

And then the sunlit walls vanished.


	17. Epilogue

The flat was grim and grey. No light patterns broke past the curtains, save an inch of weakened sunlight highlighting the furthest wall. There were no flashy spells, or curious artifacts, or even a bowtruckle to imply that magic existed somewhere outside the front door. Numbly Jacob stared at the broken morphine bottle on the rug. Threads of tiny silver shells were scattered next to the bed. In a few minutes he would find a niffler's nest of shiny objects underneath the headboard, and he would never know what had created it.

He closed his eyes, reliving the last few days. The evil, he would be glad to forget: the stench of blood and infection; the reek of vomit and body fluids; the grey pallor of Newt's face; the cries of pain and confusion; the screams of an angry mob; the fear of discovery; the flash of a dark wizard's wand. Too many remnants of war had taken place in this very room. Yet he would miss the quieted, comfortable breathing of a stranger taken in; the gentle chiding of an old friend looking after the wounded; the scuttle and pinching of a furry niffler; the soft warbling of hungry mooncalves; the red and blue plaid of a hand-sewn quilt; the simple trust of a wizard accepting that Jacob would tend to his beloved suitcase. He would miss _Claude_.

"All right," Jacob said, heaving a deep breath and turning to face Theseus. "I'm ready."

Grimly Theseus pulled out his wand, leveling it reluctantly at Jacob's eye level. "You understand what I have to do."

"Yup." Bracing his shoulders, Jacob faced him undettered. He was a soldier of the war. He wouldn't play the coward now. "Just look after the kid, okay? Tell him..."

Sensing the gravity of the unspoken, Theseus nodded. "I will."

"Okay, then." Shifting awkwardly, Jacob glanced one more time around the room. "Can I just... Here."

In one last ditch effort, as though his mind screamed to be remembered even though he would never see the kid again, Jacob snatched up a mug from the bedside table and thrust it at the wizard. "For Newt. Ah... it was kind of his favorite."

A terrible, plastic lie, but that was the mug that had borne many a strong broth that he had forced into the kid, keeping him alive. It seemed cheap and heavy in Jacob's hand, even more worthless as Theseus idly accepted it. The edge was chipped from one of Grindelwald's spells. Jacob kicked himself for his sentimentalism. What a stupid thing to give Newt to remember him by. That was Claude's mug, though - it just wasn't right to use it without thinking of him.

"Anything else?" Theseus asked mildly.

"Naw," Jacob mumbled, feeling foolish. Not that it even mattered: the wizards would move on soon enough, and no one would even ponder the fact the Jacob Kowalski existed. "Naw, that's all."

With a sage nod, Theseus tucked the mug into his pocket. "Are you ready?"

Nodding curtly, Jacob raised his chin. "Yup."

 _So long, Kid._

He flinched as Theseus' wand flicked in an elegant circle - and bopped him softly on the nose.

Amusement flickered in the wizard's eyes.

"Not a word to any of your kind," Theseus said sternly. He spun around and vanished in a whirling crack.

Stunned, Jacob reached behind him, shaky hands finding the bedpost. The strain pulsed in his arms and set his shoulders quivering. He searched the room frantically, waiting for a wizard to reappear and finish the job. He couldn't have been reprieved so easily. Surely Newt's brother wouldn't lie to the President of MACUSA about a dubiously trustworthy No-Maj.

The clock ticked dismally, finally striking the hour, and no one came.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Jacob stared at the chipped, hollow door. It was over, then. Just like that. The wizards were gone, _Claude_ was gone...

Silver glints of shell lay scattered on the carpet, alongside a chip of broken ceramic.

Heaving a gasp, Jacob buried his face in his hands.

* * *

The wizards were gone, but their chaos had ransacked the apartment. For three days Jacob swept and scrubbed. He found a woven, lacy net in the curtain that the bowtruckle had spun out of cotton threads. Coffee, tea, and blood stains had settled into the carpet. The window closest to Newt's bed was cracked. Underneath the bunk was a sizeable nest of empty syringes, bottle caps, a pocket can opener, one of Mildred's cheap, flashy earrings, large chunks of silver shell, three pins, Jacob's old watch, a piece of blue glass with a shiny foil label, a chunk of glittering quartz, three tin measuring spoons, a decent pocket knife... and a fancy array of glittering, gold coins.

Jacob didn't know where the money had come from; whether it was the wizard's, the old beggars, some well-to-do stranger's, or - heaven forbid - stolen from the bank itself. He pondered it, weighed the options of reporting it to the police, and decided to count it a stroke of good fortune. In a way, the obnoxious, thieving little niffler had paid for its troubles, and blessed him for caring for its caretaker. Jacob felt a smidgen of guilt for taking money that wasn't officially a reward, but that wasn't difficult to squash.

After all, there were enough debts compiling in order to restore the damage to his apartment. The carpets would have to be replaced, the window restored, and the walls repainted. That would be enough to satisfy the landlord.

It was a few days after the disaster when Jacob heard a timid knock on his door. He paused in the middle of measuring flour, glancing around by habit to make sure the apartment was clear of niffler paw prints and serpent scales. Shaking his head at the audacity of _expecting_ magic in his ordinary house, Jacob brushed off his hands and strode to the door, swinging it open with a grand look of utmost innocence.

"Can I help..."

Trailing off, Jacob swallowed, then swallowed again. He stepped back, cleared his throat, and haplessly reached forward.

" _Bill?"_

Wearily sweeping a hand over his gaunt face, the old army doctor looked furtively over his shoulder. "Look, Jacob, I know this is a tall order, but I feel like I done gone 'round the bend a few times. Must've fallen over and hit the wall or somethin'. Woke up with an achin' noggin and a bloody streak on the laminal, and now I can't even find three of my patients. Bloody fine doctor that makes me, eh?"

"How - _how?_ " Jacob stammered.

"I know it ain't a typical request o' me," Bill continued without pause, "But I think I'm full due for a cup o' chamomile and a few nods. Mind if I kip over for a few days? I don't trust my own head right now."

"Come in, come in!" Jacob exclaimed, grabbing the doctor's arm. He shut the door hastily, hovering as Bill set down his bag. "Bill, I thought... I thought you were..."

Huffing a laugh, Bill needled a neglected piece of shell out of the carpet. "Fancy that. Maybe I'm not the only one magnetizin' the white coats 'round here. Thought I'd emptied the cracker barrel."

"I thought you were dead!" Jacob breathed. He bustled to clear a chair, shaking his head in wonder as Bill settled in with a contented sigh.

"Wasn't my imagination, then?" Bill mused. "Magic wands and bottled cures, and one scrawny mite you ousted Mildred for?"

"It wasn't a dream," Jacob confirmed. "Bill, you _can't_ tell anyone. You can't!"

"Wha' do you think I am, a loon?" Bill guffawed. "They'd have mah doctor's license if I talked that mop and swill. By my Aunty Fay's garters, Jacob, I thought I was off tah the shiprods when I came to. Loft empty, my spare room in shambles, kid gone..." Bill's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wha' happened to the foreigner, Jake?"

"Gone," Jacob said glumly. "His brother picked him up. He's fine. Just... gone." Idly he picked up a neglected dusting cloth, then slapped it back onto the side table. "Tea?"

"Coffee, or somethin' stronger," Bill grunted. " _Much_ stronger. I think I'll go on believin' that whole codswallop was a sign tha' I needed a day off five years ago. Never work too hard, Jake. Plays tricks with your brain."

"Yeah," Jacob agreed softly.

"Haven't heard a lick o' the Barebone kiddos," Bill said morosely. "House is empty, no one's lookin' for 'em. Poor Chastity. Wizard's potion would've done her some miracle."

"We gave her a potion," Jacob said, pulling two clean mugs out of the cupboard. "The wizards fixed her, Bill. I don't know what happened to them, but they were all right last I saw them."

Whistling softly, Bill shook his head. "Whaddah ya know. Magic's done us some good an' I don't git the chance to thank someone proper."

"You won't tell anyone, Bill?" Jacob pleaded. "I'm not even supposed to remember any of this."

Bill fixed him with a sober look. "Jacob, I'm a rum awful doctor, but I'm no idjut."

* * *

 _One Year Later_

It was a glorious, sunny afternoon, and Kowalski's Bakery was packed with frequenters. Jars of caramels, licorice, and fruity hard candies lined the back shelves. Mouth-watering pastries, puffy scones, powdered dainties, jellied sweets, dusted cookies, crisp and glazed crullers, tart confections, hand pies, sugar loaves, and fresh bread stuffed the counter displays. The sweet and savory baked goods were a favorite among the regulars. Cleverly sculpted creatures made of pinched dough and hardened icing drew the gawkers and thrill seekers of New York. There was a handful of daily customers who had predictable favorites, including one dainty, fair-haired mind reader who had visited so frequently that she had finally been offered a job. She made the best apple strudel in New York, and Jacob dared say it was almost better than his grandmother's recipe.

Queenie was in the back kitchen now, dusting up "something new" with lime slices and powdered sugar for the more eccentric customers. There was a bottle of champagne back there that she didn't know about, and a gold band wrapped inside an apple cinnamon rose, which Jacob hoped to present to her later in the evening - if he could manage to keep it secret, that is. Queenie did tend to know what he was thinking before his mind could fully complete the thought, but she'd been practicing restraining her gift lately, allowing him to surprise her on occasion.

A pretty witch was something special when she pretended to be a No-Maj.

"Curious beasts," a customer commented as he pointed to a few "Raspberry Sea Serpents" in the front display. "I may have seen art of this sort in London. Do you travel abroad, Mister Kowalski?"

"I used to pop around," Jacob said a vague smile. "Would you like a box or a bag?"

He was tying up a parcel of snickerdoodles for a schoolteacher when the door swung open and a smartly dressed man with a suave comb-over strolled into the bakery. Dark eyes flitted unassumingly over the selection of goods, and an eyebrow quirked as the man set eyes on Jacob.

His first thought was Grindelwald. The second was that he'd finally been found out.

Palms clamming up, Jacob tied off the brown cord and handed the teacher her parcel, his voice cracking as he wished her a good day. Assuming a nonchalance expression, he turned to the man in the black coat. "C-Can I help you?"

"Baker's dozen," Graves said lightly, as though wizards habitually ordered sugary treats from Polish bakers. He glanced at Jacob shrewdly, and the ex-soldier fought to keep his face impassive. Surely they wouldn't wipe his memory now, even if they knew about Theseus' failure to comply with the Magical Congress.

They wouldn't, would they?

"Staff meeting?" Jacob asked thinly, his pitch a tad higher than he meant to let on. He flashed a tentative smile and added the customary thirteenth doughnut to the box.

"Mm, nooooo," Graves said distractedly. "I seem to have taken in a few street rats. They'll finish these off in a hurry."

"K-Kids?" Jacob clarified. He added a fourteenth doughnut to ensure the wizard's goodwill.

"Mm-hm." Narrowing his eyes at a display of Persians that looked suspiciously like wingless Occamies, Graves opened his mouth to speak and then glanced over his shoulder. He glowered at the window as three enamored faced bobbed out of sight. "It was _supposed_ to be a surprise," he grumbled under his breath.

Jacob nearly dropped his smile, and the box of confections _. "Chastity...?"_ he murmured.

A sharp glance from Graves silenced him. Anxiously Jacob set the box on the counter. "Anything else?"

"Mister Kowalski, seeing as my children might become regular customers, I trust you'll keep them out of trouble after school." Graves' eyebrow quirked, making the statement seem suspiciously like a counter-offer. "I would hate for someone to ... _forget_... that they're here."

Gaping, Jacob gave a slow nod and leafed over the change. "Anytime," he squeaked.

Rolling his eyes, Graves swept up the box and shooed a hand at the door. The three children scattered from the window. "Close your mouth; you look like a grindylow," he muttered to Jacob.

Clapping his mouth shut, Jacob blinked rapidly and managed a half-wave at the retreating wizard. "Have a good... morning?"

He was half tempted to close the shop early, just to settle his frazzled nerves.

* * *

Three months after the Barebone children started filtering into the bakery after school, the ultimate surprise jolted the Kowalski Bakery. On that blazing summer afternoon, Modesty was in the kitchen with Queenie, sculpting dough with much more fervor than she paid to her lessons. Her siblings were bent over their homework, scraping jelly and crumbs of their plates with the quiet satisfaction of children who finally understood full bellies and safe harbors. In the quiet atmosphere the bell above the door tinkled softly, catching mid-ring as though someone was too shy to announce his presence. Jacob glanced up from restocking Saint Germains, expecting to see young Millie; a Methodist Preacher's daughter who had recently set eyes on Credence (and wouldn't that make a fine clash in religion).

It would have been easier to camouflage a peacock in a silent graveyard than a freckled, naïve wizard in all of his foreign, blue-coated glory.

The tray of doughnuts clattered onto the floor and crumbs sprayed across the linoleum.

Visibly startled, Newt drew back and glanced around the shop. Conveniently - or perhaps purposefully - he had picked the most idle hour of the day, and the children were the only other customers. Chastity shrugged at the distraction and returned to her book, while Credence gave a bored wave.

Now Jacob knew for certain that Graves had "neglected" a few obliviation spells.

"Can I... help you...?" Jacob said without strength. Saint Mary and Merlin, he wanted to reach out and hug the kid. He rapidly absorbed every detail, from the perpetual muss of Newt's hair to the flighty tremor that never did seem to leave his hands still. There was a still confidence in the Brit's stance, and grim possessiveness of a book gripped under his arm. Jacob bit down on his tongue. If only he could say something. If only...

Languidly Chastity slung her head up and nodded at the counter. "He made Hippogriff cream puffs."

Newt flushed, his eyes flitting to the bread display, the counter, and everything but the nearest eye contact. "I know." Shambling to the counter, he dragged a bitten nail along the sanded edge and glanced at the tip jar. "Theseus told me," he said in a low voice.

Jacob's breath left him in a rush. "You remember me?"

Hazel eyes flitted up, appalled. "Of course," Newt said. He flustered, fixing his attention on a tray of frosted cinnamon rolls. "He didn't tell me at first... I thought he had... I left for a while. I wouldn't speak to him..."

The kid was getting past the "mildly interested" stage and was beginning to look moderately famished. Grinning in tentative wonder, Jacob snagged a plate and scooped up one of the cinnamon rolls, sliding it in front of the young wizard.

Newt blinked and gathered himself, reaching into his pocket.

"Nah, it's on the house," Jacob said quickly. "Don't even..."

Sheepishly Newt dropped his hand, looking like a child who had been caught begging for a treat. "I have something," he mumbled, tucking the plate to the side as he slid his book onto the counter. "It's not much... I didn't know if... It's a signed copy."

Cracking open the cover, Jacob smiled at the title page. "Fantastic Beasts, huh?" he said fondly, remembering the clever Dougal, a brave little bowtruckle, and the scrabbling of thieving paws.

"They're talking about making it into a school textbook," Newt said with mollified pride. "I can extend my research... Maybe even go back to Africa and look for some of the creatures I'm missing."

"There's even pictures?" Jacob marveled, running a hand over the familiar drawings. Nifflers, grapplehorns, hippocampuses... It was all real. He didn't even have to pretend he had imagined it all.

Thumbing back to the title page, Jacob nodded approvingly at the hand-scrawled signature -

And froze.

He read it again and swallowed hard.

 _Newton Artemis Fido Claude Scamander_

Jacob rubbed a hand over his mouth, unable to speak further. His mind circled back to the memory of a cramped apartment, a crowded city, and a hurting kid in a blue coat.

Newt shuffled anxiously, refusing to meet Jacob's eyes. "I just wanted to know," he said tentatively. "Why did you choose that name for me?"

Laughing sheepishly, while blinking back tears of fond remembrance, Jacob reverently closed the book and grabbed another plate. "I... uh... well... Hey, you want to try a paczki? This might take a while..."

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 _The End_

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 ** _Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and favorited this story, and to all the readers who patiently waited for me to conclude the tale. I'm pleased to have finished this, and I look forward to new inspiration from J.K. Rowling this upcoming winter!_**

 ** _A final thanks to Feathered Filly for inspiring this work. I hope I did your prompt justice._**

 _ **Cheers, y'all!**_


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